Left Eye
by bebop-aria
Summary: COMPLETE: Brotherhood. Violence. Politics. Sex. Revenge. Love. Betrayal. Jazz. Spike, Julia and Vicious' lives before 2068, assembled from the photo album of still images in the series. Rated for language, violence, drug use and sexual content.
1. If You Love Something, Set it Free

All the requisite author stuff:  
  
Title: LEFT EYE  
  
Summary: Filling in the blanks from the photo montage of Spike, Julia and Vicious' past.  
  
Rating: Overall, hard R, when we get on down the line, for sexual content.  
  
A/N: This really didn't start out as a fanfic. It started as my attempt to outline, from the still photos we see in the episodes, what happened between Spike, Julia and Vicious to bring us up to the "present day" in the Cowboy Bebop universe.  
  
But then the outline grew, and before I knew it I was pounding out pages of Bebop fanfic when I should have been working on my own stuff. All well and good; there's no cure for writer's block like playing with somebody else's toys.  
  
Which brings me to the fact that we have Hajime Yadate, Shinichiro Watanabe and the rest of the Bebop creative team to blame for my most recent obsession. I've tried to play nicely with them – at least as nicely as y'all played with them yourselves. They belong to Bandai, and I, well, I belong to Spike in the AU of my mind.  
  
***  
  
I. If You Love Something, Set It Free  
  
Vicious slammed the door and stood in silence for a good ten seconds before he turned on the light. She knew she was in for it somehow. She couldn't think of a sound she hated more than a door slamming at that moment, but she did her best to stand without trembling, her back to him as the light hummed on.  
  
"Julia, I don't know what got into your head in there, but I never would have expected that of you." He spoke so quietly she had to strain to hear, though his tone conveyed enough disappointment that the words were merely salt. "You're lucky Spike has nine lives, or he'd be dead because of you."  
  
She bit her lip, but couldn't hold back the retort. "I'd say it's lucky for him, Vicious. And lucky for you that I was watching your back."  
  
"I don't need you to watch my back. I need you to do your job. You were supposed to cover the back door. You left your post." His voice came closer, though she still refused to look at him.  
  
"You were in trouble, whether you admit it or not." Defiant, but faltering.  
  
"Remember this above all else: I can take care of myself. The rest of you are supposed to take care of yourselves. Do your job and everything goes as we plan it. Move off course and something happens like what happened tonight."  
  
She wheeled on him. "If I hadn't done what I did, you'd be dead for certain. You aren't invincible." Her eyes flashed, bright with tears.  
  
He regarded her for too many long seconds, keeping his distance, his expression empty. Finally he moved, crossing the gap between them and taking her arm in what seemed to be a comforting gesture. He leaned in close to her ear, and she wrapped her arms around his waist as the knowledge that she could have lost him finally broke through. The first sob died in her throat, though.  
  
"I chose you. I thought you were the best. I thought you were like me." It was more of a hiss than a whisper. "I don't want some high-maintenance Syndicate trophy wife –"her eyes widened at the word, one she had never considered – "I want a partner. Someone who can rise to the pinnacle with me. Not some baggage that's nothing more than leverage against me."  
  
His fingers dug into her arm just above the elbow. She willed herself to remain still, not to cry out.  
  
"If you can't be that for me – if you can't be my equal – then you should consider a different line of work."  
  
He stepped back then, his grip looser. Looked into her eyes. She was used to the flat, empty expression he wore to prevent anyone guessing his thoughts, but she couldn't remember the last time he had trained it on her when they were alone.  
  
"My best friend, my most powerful ally, is lying on a table in some back- alley chop shop getting bullets removed from parts of his body I am sure he would like to keep using. You're lucky all we lost was property tonight. Did you ever consider what impact his death would have on me, on us?"  
  
She stared back, all emotion to his calm, and finally blurted out, "What kind of a best friend is he if you send him in ahead of you to a gunfight? What kind of friendships can any of us have when we all deal in murder?"  
  
"The kind of best friend I can always count on to be where he belongs," Vicious sneered. "A firefight is a day behind a desk for all of us, you included – or have you gone soft on me?"  
  
She shook her head. "If worrying whether you live or die is going soft, then I suppose I've gone it." He stood still as a monolith, and she turned away again, picking up a dirty coffee cup, a napkin, a piece of string, anything that needed correcting on her walk to the sink.  
  
But he was right behind her again, though he'd made no sound. His hand landed heavy on her shoulder and she dropped the mug with a sickening crunch of clay. "Against my better judgment, and against what I want for myself, I think the time has come." The words smothered her like wet cloth – Vicious could check an execution off his list before breakfast time. She waited for the feel of a muzzle against her temple, but instead the familiar outline of his profile pressed into her cheek. "You must learn to separate our extracurricular activities from our business. This is your only chance to walk away without a marker. I am who I am, the same man you picked when you had your pick of us all. You, however, are no longer the woman I thought was my equal. If I see you tomorrow, you had best be her. If you cannot be, don't let me see your face again."  
  
"Vicious..." the name came out equal parts question and lament. His hand tightened on her shoulder and with his other, he yanked her around hard to face him. She vaguely heard the sound of a button from her blouse skittering across the hardwood floor.  
  
"And you will not use that pathetic, lovelorn tone around me again. Be a soldier if you want to share my bed."  
  
He turned on his heel, a diagonal flash of silver hair and swaying overcoat, and strode across the room to the door he'd slammed to start the conversation. On exit, he didn't bother closing it behind him.  
  
***  
  
Spike glared at the buzzing comm., loathe to pick it up while his shoulder was being stitched together. My bad shoulder, he thought to himself; it had earned that appellation by seeming to take the brunt of everything from doors to bullets. He made a mental note to spend extra time training as soon as the stitches were removed, or the muscle would heal weakly and he'd be unable to count on his reflexes.  
  
The call went to messaging, and a few seconds later the buzz began again. Archer – a sallow man dressed in a butcher's apron and wearing latex surgical gloves - snipped a thread, looked at Spike with barely-concealed irritation, and handed him the comm.  
  
"What?" Spike growled at it, as Vicious' face formed in the pixels.  
  
"We have a problem, Spike. Are you alone?"  
  
"I'm still at Archer's, not dressed yet. As you can see."  
  
"Get dressed and call me back when you can talk." Only his mouth moved when he was on comm.; it was as though without the actual presence of a human in the room, he was incapable of expending the effort on expressions or gestures.  
  
"Give me ten minutes." Spike shrugged The Bad Shoulder into his shirt, cringing in spite of himself.  
  
"Five would be better." The screen went dark.  
  
"Fifty thousand Woolongs, Mr. Spiegel," Archer muttered at him. "A bargain in your condition, and one I don't give willingly."  
  
Spike dug into his jacket pocket and came up with a wad of bills. "Here's seventy. I'm placing a bet I won't have to see you again, butcher." He grinned, but got none in return – Archer snatched the money out of his hand as though he feared he'd be shot in the act.  
  
"Get out," he said, a little more boldly with the cash in his own pocket. And Spike complied.  
  
Every time Spike set a boot down on the sidewalk, his head throbbed where some punk had broken a vase over it. The irritation at a raid gone bad did nothing to help matters. They'd gone in to collect on a debt past due from Henshai – planning to leave with both the Red-Eye he was selling them and the cash they'd brought for trade. But Henshai wasn't a fool, and worse, he wasn't tied to the Red Dragons in any substantial way beyond his debt. Taking advantage of gang rivalry in a way only an annoying civilian could, he tipped off the White Tigers regarding the deal, and invited them to come see if they could make off with the drugs and perhaps a few spare Dragon corpses. The Tigers had fared worse – two casualties to zero, by Spike's count – and Henshai might live a few days to regret what would certainly look to the rival Syndicate like a setup. But the fight had been nasty, and Julia leaving the back entrance open had made it possible for one of the Tigers to escape with the drugs. Now he and Vicious were left trying to make another buy in order to satisfy their prior obligations to the next rung down the ladder of suppliers – and while the street pusher overlords had no means of exacting any real revenge against the Dragons, few things made Spike angrier than doing the same work twice.  
  
He leaned his way into the Hangman's Bar – a favorite hangout of lowlifes, thugs and unwitting tourists (did they think the name was a joke?) in Tharsis City. Waving to Elliot behind the bar, he headed for the back booth where no one else ever sat but him or Vicious, and flipped the comm. open.  
  
Vicious' face appeared before the first buzz. "Spike, we have a problem with Julia," he said by way of social niceties. "She can't seem to keep her head in the game."  
  
"You're telling me?" Spike nodded to the waitress who brought him a bottle of Chianti, but reduced her tip by a ten-Woolong note when she plunked down an Old Fashioned tumbler next to it. She gave him the stink-eye, pointing to the recently shot-up glass rack above the bar; he just shrugged and waited until she turned away to grimace at the fact that he'd used The Bad Shoulder to do so.  
  
"I think she's going to make a run for it," Vicious continued when Spike's attention was back on the comm. "She was going on and on, some nonsense about how I was going to die and she had to save me. I told her she was going soft. I don't think she took it well."  
  
Spike took a long draught of wine from the clunky glass before he replied. "That's not really a good situation, Vicious. She knows a lot of what we do."  
  
"It's worse," Vicious replied, still betraying nothing by his expression. "I probably told her some things I shouldn't have."  
  
Spike regarded the comm. with a mixture of irritation and disbelief. The last person he imagined would get talkative with a woman was his partner. "She must be awfully good."  
  
Vicious raised one eyebrow slightly. "Well, she used to be awfully good at her job. Both of them. But tonight she almost cost me my best friend."  
  
That was a strange one. Spike knew, through tacit agreement, that he and Vicious were partners and friends; they had grown up together, trained together, and were the most formidable weapon in Mao Yenrai's Red Dragon army. But sentiment sounded rotten coming out of Vicious' mouth, and Spike had wondered plenty of times why a man with so much ambition and disdain for emotion would bother to have a paramour at all.  
  
"What do you want me to do about it, then? Can't you handle your woman?" Spike gave the comm. a lopsided grin before he took another drink.  
  
"I can't tolerate another of her displays," Vicious replied. "She made me ... angry."  
  
It was Spike's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Is she okay?"  
  
"Better off than you, no thanks to her antics. She may yet come around. But I need to know she's not going to bolt, which is where you come in."  
  
Spike raised the other eyebrow, just to level them out. "What do you want me to do, tie her down?"  
  
Vicious shook his head slightly, a stray wisp of silver hair sweeping across one eye. "Go to her apartment. If she looks like she's packing up, kill her. If she looks like she's staying put, make up some reason why you went to see her."  
  
Spike made certain his tone was even when he replied, "Some reason other than 'I was going to kill you if you had a suitcase out', I take it?" This was bizarre, even for Vicious. He may not have been a romantic, but he was fiercely possessive and protective of the things he considered his own, and Julia ranked only slightly below his katana on that list.  
  
"I'm sure you will think of something. Or else you can just tell her 'BANG'." Vicious made his finger-pistol recoil before he turned to acknowledge someone off screen. When he turned back to Spike, any trace of joking was gone. "She's had an hour or so to either calm down or get started. You should probably get there soon." And once again, the screen faded to black without a salutation. 


	2. Threading the Needle

II. Threading the Needle  
  
The walk from the Hangman's Bar to Julia's apartment took Spike through a no-man's-land warehouse district where the White Tigers and Red Dragons kept an uneasy cease-fire. The huge buildings, hastily constructed of steel girders and corrugated sheet metal skins, were all owned by third- or fourth-generation enterprising families who had snapped up the real estate back in the early 20's, when Tharsis City was just a port for the delivery of materials to be distributed to other colonies on Mars. They hired their own security, usually of the low-tech, high-caliber variety, and in some ways they had as much power as the Syndicates by virtue of the sheer volume of property they had amassed. Of course, the security forces had time on their hands, what with the Syndicates' disinterest in the property, and many of them did business with both factions, distributing contraband weapons, drugs and regulated materials to the highest bidders.  
  
Spike knew that Vicious had purchased Julia's apartment for her, away from the Red Dragon high rise and out of convenient reach of the White Tiger street posses, as much for his own benefit as for her safety. Its location was unknown by many of the lower-ranking Red Dragons, making it a de facto safe house and private oasis. Spike had been there before with Vicious, but never by himself, and he hesitated as he rounded the corner from the industrial area where it opened out into a sort of tenement suburbia. He lit a cigarette and reviewed the shop signs from his vantage point, finally spotting the bakery near the stairs that led up to her home. He finished the smoke, knowing she'd shoo him out with it, and ground it out beneath a round steel toe before crossing the street.  
  
Her lights were on, though he had seen no movement in the five minutes he spent thinking and smoking. This whole thing, he had concluded, stunk. Vicious telling Julia anything beyond what she should have known - especially considering how much she knew anyway, having risen through the ranks with alarming speed - didn't sit well at all. Spike wondered if it was really Vicious who had made the mistake here, if he had frightened her with his long-term goals of Red Dragon mastery and the elimination of the White Tigers altogether. It was a point on which Vicious and Spike had virulently disagreed: Spike felt that competition was necessary to maintain power over the general populace and the ISSP. More to the point, though he kept it to himself, he didn't think a life without competition would suit him very well. Where Vicious seemed to thrive on success and the growth of power, driven by ever-greater control over his subordinates and territory, Spike relished the skirmishes and languished in boredom without something combative to do. In the back of his mind, he knew that if Vicious' plans came to fruition, he'd probably go back to Mono-racing and remain a mere figurehead in the organization. If repetitive work was boring, business was skull-crushingly dull.  
  
That Vicious would succeed Mao Yenrai as the leader of the Red Dragons was in little doubt. The Van, concerned with business and finance and social niceties, understood little of the street element of the rivalry. So long as Vicious could continue to inspire fear in the public and the White Tigers, his ascension simply made good business sense. And that Spike - his partner and equal in street skills - would rise with him was also guaranteed. Mao had tried often to convince Spike of his importance in the grand scheme, but the young Dragon's nature made him ill suited for the highest position. Fiercely loyal, but content to be brawn, he harbored no animosity about the second-place finish. It was perhaps the only competition he did not find compelling, and so he gave it little thought.  
  
But for the first time in a long time, he allowed it to enter his mind as he mounted the stairs to Julia's. Vicious could have dealt with this himself; he was certainly better informed in the matter. Spike couldn't help wondering if this was a test of some sort, a challenge to his will. Julia was a formidable opponent and, as much as could be allowed given the nature of their trio, a close friend. Had his blind eye to anything beyond the execution of each mission made Vicious question his loyalty as a partner? He realized with trepidation that he was being asked to choose between his two comrades.  
  
His unease only increased when he reached Julia's door. It stood open by at least a foot, lights on, no sound inside. Had she gone already? Out of habit, he backed up to the doorjamb and darted a look around the corner with one hand on his gun, but she was sitting on the couch, her back to him, unmoving.  
  
He felt a sickening jolt in the pit of his stomach at the sight. She never turned her back on an open door, any more than he or Vicious or any other trained fighter would. And she was so still - as he took in the room, everything in place, no evidence of preparations for departure, he feared she might already be dead. Had Vicious gotten really angry and killed her? Had Spike simply been sent to discover a body, or worse, to be blamed for it?  
  
He swallowed hard and pushed the door open another foot or so, heart hammering in his ears. As he crossed the yards to the couch, he heard a click beneath one boot and stopped short, hand on his gun again. Bending to retrieve the object, he saw Julia stir slightly, and his eyes were on her as his fingers found the round metal object. He palmed it, but did not look, instead coming around cautiously in a wide arc so she would see it was him, hopefully before she trained her weapon on his chest.  
  
But she remained still; no doubt in her peripheral vision she could see the tall figure with greenish-black hair. She had no weapon, he noted, spotting her Beretta on the table beside the coat stand. If Vicious' behavior was odd, this was even stranger.  
  
"Julia?" he asked in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone. "Hey, are you all right?"  
  
By now he could see her fully. She sat stock-still on the couch, her arms folded across her midriff. Just above the elbow, her left arm showed the angry purple and red bruising of a rough restraint. So it came to a physical confrontation, he thought to himself - and for a moment he entertained the notion that he had been too sentimental about this whole thing. Vicious was not the type to harm a comrade unless a training exercise or disagreement of serious proportion were involved. It meant unnecessary exertion, and he much preferred to let his logic and implicit power win an argument for him. This must have been a serious row, all right.  
  
He felt a pang of worry when she continued to stare straight ahead. Her eyes shone though no evidence of tears marred her face. He knelt in front of her, where she could not avoid seeing him without looking away, and tried again.  
  
"Julia? I could have been anyone. You're pretty badly unprepared."  
  
He thought his tone was gentle, but her face tightened as she finally looked at him. "I don't need it from you, too," she spat out.  
  
"Whoa," he replied. "I'm not sure what I just gave you, but I only meant I was worried about you."  
  
"No doubt here to tell me I almost got you killed." It was a matter of fact statement, the vitriol gone, replaced by something like resignation.  
  
I'm sure you will think of something, Vicious had said. She didn't seem to be going anywhere, so maybe she'd just given him his opening. But it seemed unfair to take advantage of her when she was already clearly shaken, and so he shook his head.  
  
"No, that's not why I'm here." He looked again at the bruise on her arm. "Vicious said you had a fight. I was concerned."  
  
Her eyes welled, but she kept her composure. "So you think I've gone soft too?"  
  
"I don't know what I think." It was true, and this seemed to break through whatever barrier she had been constructing. A single tear rolled down her cheek.  
  
"How can I not worry for him if I love him?" she blurted out, and then the sobs began.  
  
He didn't know what else to do; he'd rarely been confronted by a crying woman. So he did what Annie used to do when he'd come into her shop battered and spooked, and took Julia's hands in his own. When she reluctantly moved her arms, he saw the bare skin of her stomach where a button was missing from her blouse, and remembered the disc he still held in his right hand.  
  
"Hey," he said in a low voice, "I'm not here to yell at you. It looks like you've had your quota of that for today anyhow."  
  
Now the tears came in earnest, and he sat awkwardly on his haunches, his thighs going numb in protest, afraid to move. She didn't offer anything more by way of explanation, averting her eyes from his puzzled gaze. When he realized he would fall over if he didn't do something else, he spotted her needlework on the side table next to the couch.  
  
"Let me fix this for you," he said a bit too brightly, and let go of one of her hands to pick up the needle. The needlepoint frame clattered to the floor, suspended by thread, and he felt his face flush hot. She slipped her other hand free and touched his forearm briefly before she picked up the frame and tore the thread with her teeth. She tied a stopknot at the end and held out her free hand, but he shook his head and took the needle from her. "No different than stitches," he said, and held up the button.  
  
She relinquished the needle and let her hands drop to her sides, still avoiding his eyes. The missing button was the second from the bottom, and he realized he would have better luck with the repair if the bottom one were loose. And though he had wielded a weapon beside her for years, he found himself confused and small at the thought of crossing that boundary.  
  
Her refusal to look at him forced his decision: he took the edges of the shirt gingerly and undid that terrifying bottom button, unable to miss the white skin beneath or the fine hairs that made it look almost like suede. Cybernetic precision, he thought to himself - that damned right eye always perfectly in focus, leaving his simple human one to catch up in his brain.  
  
But now he was down to a task he knew well, and he found fabric far less resistant than skin to the needle. He gave the button a good tug after a few whisks of the thread, judged it sturdy, and fastened her blouse again, all the while concentrating on the pattern of the cloth. So it was a jolt, when he set the needle down and looked into her face again, to see that Julia had fixed him with an immobile stare, like someone seeing a strange animal for the first time.  
  
Despite a proclivity for keeping his mouth shut, the silence was making him a nervous wreck. Something was not what it seemed. "What happened here?" he urged, and rose to sit on the couch next to her.  
  
This bit of distance seemed to help; she could stare straight ahead without having to avoid him. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and finally said in a whisper, "He told me to leave."  
  
The alarm bell rang clear in Spike's head. "Vicious did?" he asked incredulously, trying to fit this information into the scenarios he'd cooked up down on the street. She nodded and hiccupped, looking down at the buttons on her blouse as though willing her body not to betray her. "He told me if I couldn't treat business like business, this was my one chance to get out."  
  
It was the last thing Spike had expected. His head hurt from the earlier injuries and the Chianti and the effort of trying to piece this together, and he dropped his face into his hands, rubbing his temples in an attempt to stop the pounding.  
  
"Why are you here, Spike?" He could tell she had turned to face him now, greater physical distance between them but her gaze on his profile. "Did he send you to come and convince me to stay?" He did not answer. She went on, shakily, as much to herself as to him. "He could have done that himself. If he didn't want me to go he could have admitted it. It's not like I would chastise him for being soft, the way he did me..."  
  
The words were out before he could stop them. "Yeah, he sent me to stop you from going. With a bullet, if it looked like I couldn't persuade you."  
  
It hung there suspended between them like a fragile object in mid-fall - dread flooded Spike's gut as he realized that this admission could easily cost him his life, whether at Julia's hand or Vicious', and she sucked in a breath as the mental image of him - coming through the door with his hand on his gun - clashed with his tender actions of a moment earlier.  
  
"What are you going to do to me?" she asked him, her voice tight and steady. He furrowed his brow at her.  
  
"I... What am I going to do to you?" He shook his head. "I think, at this point, it's more a question of what you're going to do to me. Or what you're going to tell Vicious about me." The pain in his gut dialed up a degree. "I'm confused. He said you wanted out."  
  
Rage replaced her sadness and Spike felt considerable relief that he was talking to the Julia he knew again. "He treated me like a child, as much as told me I was holding him back, and then promised me I could leave tonight without retribution if I couldn't grow up and... and... I don't know what. Be a man, I suppose." She stood up and paced to the sink, picking up the broken pieces of the mug that had dropped earlier - pieces Spike had not noticed before.  
  
"Did he hit you?" Spike knew it sounded clichéd, but now his brain was in overdrive, working to explain how he and Julia had come to be in this spot. "Did you hit him?"  
  
She smirked. "I think it would have been better if he had." And then the smirk faded as she came back to sit down on the couch. "Leave it to me to fall in love with a man who'd as soon have me rubbed out as just break up with me. Everything's such a ceremony with him." She looked Spike up and down for the first time. "Not to make light of it, for example, but you look pretty good for nearly dead, Spike."  
  
He wasn't sure how they had gotten back to "normal" so quickly, but he didn't want to rock the boat for fear of sinking it. So he gave her a smirk of his own and scoffed, "I have nine lives, but I didn't have to spend one tonight."  
  
She stared off toward the bedroom door for a few moments and then turned to him, grabbing his wrist. "Can I trust you?" She looked ten years younger, and scared all of a sudden.  
  
He blinked, and before he could answer, she went on, "I'm sorry. What a stupid question. You're probably the only person I can trust right now."  
  
He nodded. "I admit I'm a little worried about whether I can trust you, though." He gave her a sheepish smile. "A better way to say that would be that I have no idea who I can trust." For a man who fit comfortably into his Syndicate niche, that was a worry he rarely addressed unless he was in enemy territory.  
  
If his first comment stung, she didn't show it - she just tightened her grip on his wrist and brought the other hand up to his face.  
  
"Thank you," she told him evenly. "For fixing my button. And for not shooting me. But I think you had better go on home." She stood, pulling him up with her. "I have a lot of thinking to do."  
  
He squeezed her hand, still unsure of what had just transpired. "Do me a favor, though," he said, "and don't pack any bags."  
  
She let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. "No, I hadn't planned on it. But you did a good job of making that decision final, anyway."  
  
He turned to go, the tips of her fingers trailing through his own, and looked back one more time before he pulled her door closed behind him. 


	3. Signal Dissonance

III. Signal Dissonance  
  
Every time Spike picked up the comm. to call Vicious, he couldn't think of anything to say besides "What are you trying to pull?" All the way back to the tower – on foot, so he could think and not be bothered by train passengers or cabbies – he shuffled the comm. in and out of his coat pocket, until he found himself at the double glass doors. They hissed open to admit him; a quick check with the lobby guard revealed that Vicious had left hours ago and not yet returned.  
  
He rode the elevator to the library, where he'd taken up a sort of residence over the past few months. His apartment – tiny, up four flights of stairs, and constantly rattled by the sound of the passing monorail – would no doubt be tossed for valuables and re-rented before long. He hadn't paid the landlady since she opened his door to the ISSP; while they found nothing of interest or value, it was the principle of the thing. And the Syndicate had steamrooms and showers and the sprawling expanse of the library, with its overstuffed couches and low-slung coffee tables and books – some of them centuries old. He retrieved the copy of Faust from the cushions of a Victorian-style armchair, put his feet up on the ottoman, and settled in to wait for Vicious to come looking for information.  
  
At six in the morning, the smell of coffee mitigated the unpleasant, sharp shake of his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Vicious, grim and tired, holding two mugs. "What happened?" he growled.  
  
"Yo." Spike yawned, prolonging the moment of torture with an inward smile. Clearly, Vicious had been up all night.  
  
"Your failure to contact me was rather disturbing." Terse and formal.  
  
"The errand had the potential to be unpleasant." Spike dropped his boots to the floor, groaning as his knees protested and his shoulder began to ache again. "But she wasn't going anywhere."  
  
"You're sure?" Vicious fixed him with a penetrating glare.  
  
"She hadn't moved from the couch since you left." He inhaled steam and frowned. "Thanks for the coffee. Does this mean you want me to stay awake?"  
  
Vicious sighed. "What did she say to you?"  
  
Spike weighed his options. "She said you fought. I could see that for myself. Classy."  
  
"What happens between Julia and I is my business," Vicious muttered.  
  
"No, when you send me to her house with an order to kill her if she's leaving, that pretty much makes it my business. If you wanted to keep it private you should have gone yourself." Spike looked away, wanting to ask the implicit question, but sure he didn't want to hear the answer.  
  
"I didn't think you would consider it a conflict of interests," Vicious replied darkly.  
  
"Well, it was. You said you told her too much, and if this were really an issue of the Syndicate's security, an order to eliminate her should have come from the Van. Except, of course, that it would have implicated you at the same time."  
  
Vicious looked up through strands of gray hair and his eyes widened. "And what would you do about that?"  
  
"Nothing, which is where the conflict of interest comes in. I covered your ass. I had to wonder if what you really wanted was for me to take the blame, and not just make the problem go away." There, it was out.  
  
Vicious sipped his coffee. He set the mug down with exaggerated care in the center of a coaster and shook his head. "I didn't intend that. I hoped you would be able to convince her to stay."  
  
"She didn't need convincing. But all the same, you stacked the odds when you told her she could go."  
  
The gray glare returned. "She said that?"  
  
"I want to know if you said it," Spike replied. He was surprised when Vicious nodded. "So you told her to go, and then sent me to kill her if she did? What is this, gangster high school?" He stood and paced to the window. "Julia is my friend. And your lover. I don't like being played."  
  
"You should not be thinking about being played, Spike," Vicious said in a low voice filled with disdain. "You should be thinking about the Syndicate, and our responsibilities."  
  
Spike rounded on him. "No, you should have been thinking about that when you ran off your mouth."  
  
Vicious drew himself up to full height and advanced on his partner. "I am aware of that, and I dealt with it. You're as bad as she was, I swear. Can't you comprehend that all these personal relationships don't trump our duty?"  
  
Spike didn't back down. "By your reasoning, I should report you for talking out of school. But you counted on my relationship with you to keep me from doing just that. You counted on my relationship with you to make me want to convince Julia to stay before I put a bullet in her head. What I can't figure out is how you could smack her around, but you didn't want to be the triggerman - unless you think you're above the rules you're spouting."  
  
Vicious' hand went to the hilt of his katana. Spike couldn't help smirking. "You'd kill me, but not her?" he prodded. "Looks like you're letting your relationship get in the way of your principles."  
  
"A mistake I won't make again," he snarled in reply, and stalked out of the room.  
  
Spike waited until the door closed to relax, stretching his fingers out. He'd wanted a good fight, he realized after the opportunity had passed. He poured the coffee into the ficus tree planter next to the window, eased into the chair, and dropped his head into his hands. Unbidden, he saw Julia's face on the backs of his eyelids, the trails from her tears spiderwebbed across white cheeks, and he rubbed at the spot where she'd laid her hand on his jaw. In the two years since they'd first locked eyes in the pool hall, his attraction to her had faded into memory; he tried to push its resurgence from his mind, but her face stayed there, his jaw tingled, and he felt a slow burn of anger when he remembered the bruises on her arm. He twisted so his weight was on his uninjured shoulder, a leg hanging over the arm of the chair, and with a mighty sigh, went back to sleep.  
  
***  
  
Julia lay half-asleep for a good half hour after the alarm trilled at 9:00, letting her dream of a long train ride through darkness fade into subconscious. She put little stock in the way her mind tried to sort out questions during sleep; even so, she recognized the significance of the endless night, the repetitive motion, and the vague scenery that flashed by the windows of the empty passenger car. A journey away from the Syndicate would be one without rest, without a final destination, without a home. She had spent the first twenty years of her life on just such a journey, and had found a home, purpose and respect with the Red Dragons. Her relationship with Vicious began as a product of her ambition and quest for acceptance. She grew to love what he represented - precision, determination, leadership. She had indeed had her pick of the men around her, and despite Mao and Annie's private counsel that love between Syndicate members would create hard choices - "signal dissonance", Mao had said - she'd believed her life with Vicious above the plane of jealousy and suspicion.  
  
Spike's visit the night before horrified her in principle, but in the daylight she wondered if Vicious had sent him precisely because Spike wouldn't have been able to pull the trigger if it came to it. Spike's interest in her was no secret in the early days of her life in Tharsis City, though his seemingly good-natured acquiescence to her choice of his partner only underscored her reason for it. He was powerful, loyal, driven by the goal of completion - but he seemed to lack the ambition to control his own destiny. He remained young while the men around him pursued the trappings of adulthood.  
  
In their line of work, a moral compass was more often a liability than an advantage. But last night, Spike's had saved her from that endless train ride. In truth, she had planned to leave. She had made the very mistake Vicious accused her of: she believed that, given their status as lovers, he would really let her leave without consequence. In the light of day, the folly was obvious.  
  
So she rose, dressed in somber gray, and left her apartment to be the woman Vicious wanted. During the drive to the tower, she rehearsed a cool and unconcerned smile, played out scenarios in which Vicious touched her and she did not flinch, and reminded herself all along that only death or the train ride in her dream awaited if she could not pull it off. By the time she parked the red convertible, it had become just another mission, her specialty, the one where she was simple and beguiling and dangerous. Her mark was her own lover; the reward, her life.  
  
"Women are all liars," she whispered to herself, and the Syndicate doors slid open as though it were an incantation. 


	4. Debt

A/N:  
  
Thanks, thoughts and warnings are in order.  
  
First, thanks to all of you who've given me such generous and positive feedback so far. I love these characters – and as much as I appreciate the way the Bebop series leaves it up to us to decide how we see them, it's a tremendous pleasure to put my own interpretations to the page. I am glad it's fun for others as well.  
  
Second, my least favorite thing about Bebop was the cardboard presentation of Vicious in the show. Of course we knew he was more complex, just as we knew that Julia had to have more inspirational qualities than just her beauty. But that was relegated to a past we never saw. I believe the only way things could have turned out as they did in the series was if these characters all had difficult choices to make, and difficult personalities that made living in normal society nearly impossible. Those opinions very deeply inform this story, so you may want to keep them in mind.  
  
Finally, a word of warning. I'm about to start earning my "R" rating. I don't believe in gratuitous sex in fan fiction; it just seems like a rude thing to do to characters who would never indulge themselves. (Don't be offended if you write it; I'm just talking about what I can write.) But sex, power and loyalty are all intertwined, and they're all about to come into play. Don't expect heart-shaped beds in honeymoon suites or florid prose. You've been warned. ;)  
  
***  
  
IV. Debt  
  
"How long will you require to obtain more Red Eye?" Ping Long's thin voice drifted down from the mezzanine and he leaned forward into the light.  
  
Vicious withheld a reply while he settled into the chair in the center of the massive auditorium. The Roman archaism of the Van's chamber made his blood boil; the three Long brothers seemed to take great pleasure in the insignificance bestowed on its visitors. He crossed his legs, adjusted the scabbard of his katana, and finally raised his eyes.  
  
"I have a source on Ganymede."  
  
"The price?" Now Sou Long came into view.  
  
"Comparable, plus the gate fees."  
  
"How soon can you arrange the exchange?" Ping Long repeated.  
  
"I can go today and be back tomorrow morning."  
  
"Does your contact manufacture the product?"  
  
Vicious shook his head. "No, but I can find out who does."  
  
"We are still anxious to secure a laboratory for production," Sou Long reminded him.  
  
Rising to his feet, Vicious replied, "I will return with that information, and determine if the Ganymede producer would be a worthwhile acquisition."  
  
"Return with the information. We will decide whether negotiations are appropriate." Ping Long sat back in the shadows again.  
  
"Who will go with you?" The habit of Ping and Sou trading sentences made Vicious fight to control a twitch in his right eye.  
  
"Julia will accompany me. She is best suited to obtain the information we seek." He turned to leave, but a voice from the mezzanine - he was not sure whose - stopped him.  
  
"We understand that Julia is the reason for the delay."  
  
Vicious nodded, though he did not turn back to the Van. "She is," he said clearly, "and she will be required to work hard to remedy her mistake."  
  
He waited, but they apparently had nothing else to say. He gathered his coat around him and strode out through the heavy oak doors, without so much as a glance at the guards on either side.  
  
He stalked the long corridor to the west elevators, teeth clenched. Spike's flippant attitude - and the fact that he had continually played Vicious' lie about Julia having too much information against him - had left him in a foul mood whose persistence irritated him even more. Spike had come dangerously close to the truth - that Vicious' anger at Julia stemmed from nothing more than pride - but fortunately, he seemed focused on the security excuse. Vicious hated the part of himself that could not let go of the woman. She was less competent than his partner, though certainly capable; he knew it was weakness that made him crave her body, and weakness that made him proud of his domination of her. She would pay for the embarrassment today, he decided, not at his hand, but at the hand of whoever knew what he sought to learn on Ganymede. If she did not agree to the task, he could be certain that her affections were dangerous, and it would give him the freedom to come to the Van seeking her exile with his own hands clean.  
  
He spotted a blond head at the window table in the atrium, and in spite of his dark mood, felt something akin to joy. He pushed the thought of her body entwined with his from his mind, concentrating instead on the penance had had devised as he crossed the room to her.  
  
She looked up, smiled slightly, and offered, "Coffee?"  
  
He sat without returning the smile. "I am glad to see you here," he told her, though his tone was that of a superior.  
  
She shrugged. "You underestimated me. Sending Spike around to check up on me was a surprise, though."  
  
He looked into her eyes for a long moment, trying to read the real meaning behind the words. But she simply looked back, unconcerned, and refilled her cup. "What did you have in mind for him - a retrieval?"  
  
He concentrated on keeping his voice low and even, though her use of the polite term for the elimination of a defector made him wonder what Spike had told her. "No, I thought he could help you if you had made up your mind to go."  
  
She caught the double entendre loud and clear, but did not show it. "Well, he was kind enough to fix my shirt. But I could have done that myself. Just as I wouldn't have needed an escort off Mars, had that been my intention."  
  
Satisfied, Vicious allowed a smile to play at the corners of his mouth. "Spike can sew?"  
  
She laughed, that bell-like sound that Vicious heard too rarely and wished he could summon more often. "Not really, but he can administer stitches." She set the cup down and snaked a hand across the table to take his. "What's on the schedule for today?"  
  
The smile left his face like it had been forgotten. "We need to go to Ganymede," he told her, "to fix what was broken last night."  
  
"Just us?" she replied, and squeezed his fingers.  
  
He withdrew his hand and stood. "Yes. And you have some information to obtain for the Van, to make your mistake right again."  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Research? I don't need to be relegated to private eye status, Vicious. I'm here. Consider that your guarantee my mind's on business."  
  
He took her arm as she stood. "No, not exactly. I require your more visible talents."  
  
She walked with him in silence to the elevator, knowing what he meant but confused. He had exercised his authority on more than one occasion to prevent her from being assigned a task that might require putting a mark - and herself - in a compromising position. She was never sure whether jealousy or kindness motivated the decision, but it had been over a year since she'd had to lay a hand on another man. And she knew it would be a test that she could only pass with her own wits; Vicious offered nothing further by way of explanation.  
  
As soon as the elevators doors closed behind them, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her body against his. She caught a glimpse of his feral expression before he bent to kiss her, open-mouthed, forcing his tongue between her teeth. The hand on the small of her back clenched; he drove her up against the wall of the elevator car so that his fist dug into her kidney, and with the other he pulled the hem of her skirt up nearly to her waist. She felt the hilt of his sword and his own hardness pressed against her belly and fought back a wave of nausea, remembering the train in her dream and trying to recall what she had loved about him only the night before. She raised her arms to embrace him in return, knowing it was hardly the time to fuel his suspicions, and nearly collapsed with relief when the control panel dinged, signaling a stop. Vicious pulled back with a smile, gave her skirt a tug so that it fell into place, and dropped his arm over her shoulder to guide her out into the lobby.  
  
"You're not really dressed for the mission," he told her with a wicked smile. "Go home and pack, and meet me here in an hour."  
  
She smiled back with the smile she used to inspire trust and curiosity, and trailed a finger down his lapel before she crossed the street to her car.  
  
***  
  
Julia pounded the steering wheel with the palm of her hand as she drove, near tears with anger. She was out of practice, she was being weak, she was all of the things Vicious had said last night. Before she'd met him, she could beguile the most revolting target and get whatever she needed – money, information, food, a place to stay – but now she found herself in danger of failing to convince a man she'd willingly loved that she still found him attractive. She yanked hard on the wheel to turn into the alley next to her building and sat while the engine whined down into silence, breathing deep, focusing. A list – she needed a list of things to retrieve from her apartment, a task to complete. She ran through the items as she took the stairs two at a time – her throwing knives, something leather and indecent, knockout spray, the diamond brooch with the camera inside that Vicious had given her as his first gift.  
  
With her hand on the door, the realization hit her: if she really wanted to run, this was the time to act. Vicious would be waiting for her at the Syndicate. She could board a transport and be away inside of 45 minutes; her money would last until she found a way to come up with more. She'd spent eight years doing it before she settled in Tharsis City. She could still smell Vicious, taste his tongue, feel the ache in her back where he'd no doubt bruised her. Overnight, he'd gone from her perfect match to a nightmare, one she knew now she wouldn't escape. There would be no breaking it off with him, and the more she thought, the more she understood that this assignment, whatever it really was, was just a way for him to exercise his control over her and quell his own insecurities. She saw the rest of her days stretch out in front of her, waking up beside him, second- guessing every word he spoke in her presence, wondering – as she did now, she realized – if each invitation to be alone with him was what they used to call "the call" in the old mafia movies.  
  
She unlocked the door and pushed her way in. A cold sweat had crept up her neck while she stood in the hallway and she shivered as she took off her overcoat. She crossed to the couch and sat with her hands in her lap, staring around at the familiar angles, the shadows that told her it was not quite noon, the scant few objects she'd brought with her when she came to Tharsis, and the dozen or so that had gained significance since she arrived.  
  
"Every minute I sit here is like another low card on a blackjack hand," she told the room. "But I can't decide if going bust means I'll be stuck here, or if I'll be riding that train forever."  
  
The buzz of the comm. from her coat pocket startled her out of reverie. She rushed to get it, concocting a story in her head as she did about traffic and not being able to find something she needed, anything to buy more time. But the face on the comm. was not Vicious – it was Spike.  
  
"Yo," he offered.  
  
"Spike."  
  
"You look... hey, are you all right?" he leaned in closer to the screen, his features distorting fish-eyed as he did so.  
  
She couldn't come up with an answer. The relief she felt seeing Spike's friendly countenance surprised her, and she simply stared at the comm.  
  
"Julia?" He knit his eyebrows. "Where are you?"  
  
"At home," she managed. "Packing."  
  
"What?" He looked around to see who might have been in earshot.  
  
"No, packing for Ganymede. Vicious and I are going, I assume to pick up a shipment."  
  
He frowned. "Hadn't heard about it. I know he has a friend there who sells, though."  
  
She nodded in reply. "I was sitting here thinking I could leave while he was waiting for me. And then you called, and... I'll see you when I get back."  
  
She pushed the off button before he could say anything more and rose to pack her bags. 


	5. As Good a Day as Any

V. As Good a Day as Any  
  
Spike aimed a heel-kick at the ottoman when the comm. went blank, but checked himself and jabbed in Vicious' number instead. He got messaging immediately and drummed his fingers through the instructions for leaving a voice message, a video message, or a callback code. When the buzz sounded, he realized he wasn't sure why he had tried to reach Vicious in the first place, so he spat a terse "Call me back!" at the camera and disconnected.  
  
He had no intention of saying anything about Julia's strange comment - that was certain. But it dawned on him as he sat hunched over in the chair, cradling the comm. in both hands, that he was afraid Vicious had taken his goading too literally and might be taking Julia for a last ride. He pulled himself up, looked down at his rumpled, bloody suit, and weighed waiting for Vicious against returning to his apartment. He didn't have to choose, though - the door to the library swung open and Vicious swept in.  
  
"What?" he barked, though he seemed far less irritated than he'd been when he left.  
  
"Going to Ganymede?"  
  
Vicious fixed him with a blank stare. "Yes. I don't need your assistance."  
  
"What's on Ganymede?" Spike knew, but wanted to hear it from the man himself.  
  
"The Red Eye we need for tomorrow, and a chance for Julia to make up for the loss of the first delivery." Vicious paused. "How did you know?"  
  
"I called Julia to make sure she was all right," Spike replied evenly. "She said she was packing to go with you."  
  
Vicious nodded. "That's why you don't need to go. She's going to help me identify the manufacturer." He seemed about to say more, but closed his mouth and looked Spike up and down. "You look awful," he concluded.  
  
"I feel worse. But if you don't need me, I'll go home and do something about it." Spike picked up his coat and pulled it on gingerly.  
  
He waited for Vicious to leave the room before following. They rode the elevator down without speaking; as was usually the case with their disagreements, reparations were neither offered nor necessary. But as they parted at the doors of the tower, Spike called after his partner.  
  
"Hey, Vicious?"  
  
Vicious stopped but did not turn.  
  
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do." Spike hoped the meaning was clear; he didn't know how else to voice his suspicions without giving away the conversation he'd had with Julia.  
  
"You mean 'anything you didn't do'?" Vicious replied.  
  
"You got it." Spike stood watching as Vicious continued down the sidewalk to the warehouse that served as a hangar for Syndicate zipcrafts; he lit a cigarette and smoked until the little gray fighter rolled out and lifted off before heading in the same direction. It was as good a day as any, he decided, to move out of the slums.  
  
***  
  
Julia had just finished packing the last of her kit when she heard the whoosh of Vicious' zipcraft outside her window. The ceiling fan swayed as it landed on the roof of the building, and she shouldered the bag, taking her coat and sunglasses before locking up. She opened the fire escape, ignoring the momentary blare of the alarm, and headed up to the roof access where he stood with the door open, peering down into the dark stairwell.  
  
"Getting impatient?" she asked as she put on her shades.  
  
"You were late." He took her bag and waited for her to climb into the cockpit.  
  
"I had a little trouble packing without much of a plan to work from," she told him as he boarded behind her, "so I just brought everything."  
  
He appraised her black leather ensemble over his shoulder before entering a flight plan into the console. "You probably didn't need anything except what you're wearing," he said with a smirk. "But I'm glad you're prepared anyway."  
  
They lifted off, the shudder of the thrusters smoothing out into a steady hum, and ascended through the atmosphere toward the gate.  
  
***  
  
Spike heaved a sigh and then chuckled at the rusted padlock holding his apartment door closed. This game with Rina never failed to amuse him. He pulled the Jericho out of his waistband, shielded his eyes with a forearm, and squeezed off two shots. He heard the clunk of the lock falling to the floor, and then the slam of a door down the hallway. He lowered his arm to see Rina barreling toward him with alarming speed; she had a frying pan in one hand and a murderous glower on her face. He rested a finger on the door latch, and just as she reached where he stood, he depressed it, pushed the door open, and ducked inside. From the hall, he heard scuffling, a clatter, and then a stream of expletives. He poked his head back out, cringing at the sight of his 60-year-old landlady with her housedress up around her waist as she sprawled on the floor, and then slammed the door shut, throwing the deadbolt.  
  
"You PIECE of SHIT BASTARD!" she screamed from the other side of the door, "I'm gonna lock your ass in there so you can starve!"  
  
"All right," he called back mildly.  
  
"I am not KIDDING!" she bellowed.  
  
"Neither am I." He tried to keep the laughter out of his voice. He heard the whish and rattle of the chain, and the soft snick of a new lock being applied.  
  
He looked around, unhurried. No doubt she'd give him a few hours to get hungry and then stand outside the door offering to let him out if he paid - at least, that was what she'd done the last two times. He retrieved his only suitcase - from the only shelf of the only closet in the apartment - and set to work, stuffing clothing, books, ammunition, a half-dozen cartons of cigarettes, and his pool cue inside. It wouldn't close unless he sat on the lid, and the two latches made a brittle creaking sound when he stood up after closing them.  
  
He made another sweep of the room, but there wasn't much left to speak of. Beer and soda in the fridge - he opened a Pippu and downed it while scribbling "Have a drink on me" on the back of an envelope. He attached the envelope to the refrigerator door with a "Help stop crime" magnet the ISSP lackeys had seen fit to leave behind.  
  
Satisfied with his staging, he pulled a sheet off the bed and tied it through the handle of the suitcase. He lugged the suitcase and sheet over to the window, slid it open, and shimmied his way out to the fire escape with the free corner of the sheet in his hand. After a failed first try, he managed to jump high enough to grab hold of the storm drain around the roof of the building, and concentrated on ignoring the pain in his shoulder while he pulled himself up.  
  
He lay flat on his back on the roof. Looking left, he saw the Swordfish II parked next to the access stairs; to his right, he saw patches of Martian sky, the glinting squares of taller buildings' windows, and far off, the winking lights of projected glowboards where the approach rings led to the gate. "Come home safe," he whispered, blinking the blackness out of his peripheral vision as the pain subsided.  
  
He gave a mighty tug on the sheet, pulling the suitcase up onto the roof with him, and dragged it behind him to the waiting Mono-racer. After a dodgy short-start liftoff, the building grew smaller and smaller beneath him, and he laughed out loud as he thought of Rina, opening the door later tonight to find him utterly gone.  
  
***  
  
Julia stretched her legs on either side of Vicious' pilot seat, settling in for the flight. She was pleased he had taken the fighter; a modified Mono- racer, it had only the control position and a jumpseat directly behind, and he'd have little opportunity to manhandle her for the duration of the trip. Sure, they'd found a few creative positions in it before, but the effort wasn't worth the reward, and it had been a year or so since he'd tried anything in the craft.  
  
She watched the glowboards glide past as each guide ring drew near and then slid behind them. Spike's call had delivered the clarity she sought: his face reminded her that there had been good times with Vicious, and at the same time she realized those good times almost always included his gangly partner. In turn, this reminded her of Annie and Mao, her first months in Tharsis City, and how the Red Dragons had made a place for her spirit and skills. Leaving Vicious would mean leaving Spike, Annie, Lin and Mao - the only family she had known since her parents made one false step and found themselves in the hands of the ISSP. Julia had never known why they were constantly on the move, and as a child it hadn't occurred to her to wonder. It was an ISSP officer who'd described to her how their constant "vacation" from planet to satellite to moon had really been an elaborate smuggling route; she'd waited until he went to the bathroom and bolted from the station, disappearing into the Venusian thunderstorm with the clothing on her back and the concealed satchel of cash her mother had given her when the lights of the cop crafts surrounded them.  
  
Eight years later, she met Spike and Vicious in a pool hall with an exit sign that read "Better luck next time". They vied for her affection and she played them off one another, but despite their obvious Syndicate trappings, they were neither rough nor crude, and by the end of the evening they had offered her a place to stay with Annie. Reaching deep, she could still recall the overwhelming relief when the two young men bid her goodnight, asking no payment or favor. She'd sat up with Annie most of that night, telling her story, embellishing a little but drawn by the older woman's open countenance and smooth, low voice. She stayed only a week before Mao himself came and asked her to run an errand for him. Perhaps she associated the life of organized crime with her childhood; certainly, she viewed the police as the people responsible for her years scraping out a living, a child doing the work of a jaded woman. Whatever the reason, life in the Syndicate felt right, and she knew now that family, no matter their shortcomings, was better than living alone again.  
  
The gate announcement crackled over the ship's comm. Familiar safety warnings in different languages, the toll request, and the metallic voice acknowledging their payment washed over her and she closed her eyes, hoping for sleep. She drifted off with the picture in her mind of Spike and Vicious, young men then, turning simultaneously to stare at her across the smoky room, and she clung to the image like a lifeline that would keep her from drowning. 


	6. Accountability

VI. Accountability  
  
"Now approaching Ganymede. Please switch all toll cards to debit mode." The smooth, synthetic greeting dragged Julia from a dreamless slumber, and she sat up, flexing her joints, for a look around. On Ganymede it seemed to be approaching dusk. Vicious was busy with the instrument panel, paying tolls and shutting down the automatic pilot. With control of the vessel back, he gunned the engine and they dropped into a sharp descent as soon as they cleared the last guide ring.  
  
He maneuvered over the circular oasis of the city, landing on the roof of an office tower with a view of the water sculptures in the bay. Julia's ears rang as the engine noise declined and stopped; she barely heard Vicious when he finally spoke.  
  
"It's showtime," he told her conversationally.  
  
"I still don't know what I'm here to do," she reminded him.  
  
The hatch of the zipcraft hissed open. He didn't answer until they had clambered down the narrow stair with their bags.  
  
"We need to find out who manufactures the Red Eye here." He busied himself closing the hatch and securing the ship. "Manfred won't want to give up that information, since he's hoping to rope me in as a more frequent buyer. But it's not worth the time and the trip coming out here when we can get it on Mars most of the time. If we had access to the manufacturing, we could use our transports to make pickups directly and deliver to the warehouse district."  
  
She folded her arms over her chest, the patent leather creaking. "And we'd be supplying the White Tigers as well as our own contacts."  
  
He nodded with a small smile. "You understand."  
  
She shrugged. "I could have figured that out for myself. But it doesn't explain what you think I'm going to be able to do, all dolled up, to get the name."  
  
His smile faded; he seemed to weigh his options before he continued. "Manfred doesn't exactly attract the attention of women. He's led a hard life."  
  
She narrowed her eyes, waiting for him to spit it out.  
  
"I think the promise of your attentions might make him willing to barter with his knowledge." Vicious watched her face, but not a muscle moved as she continued to stare at him.  
  
"The promise?" she finally asked. "As in, tell him I'll fuck him if he tells you where the dealer is, and then split when he spills the beans? He can't possibly be that stupid if he's kept the details from you until now."  
  
He inclined his head, acknowledging the backhanded compliment. "Some guarantee of payment on both sides will be required. It will be a delicate negotiation."  
  
Her features transformed by slow degrees into a glower. "This is punishment," she said flatly, "and nothing more. You could have brought more people and gotten the information by force."  
  
He extended a hand to take her shoulder, but she turned at the waist to avoid the contact. "Julia," he said, "it's not punishment. But it is a test. And it is reparation for what happened at Henshai's."  
  
"A test of what?" She took a step back from him as he moved to touch her again. "Of whether I'll fuck another man? And what happens to me if I do?"  
  
"If you get the information, you'll be commended by the Van. And I'll know you believe in what we're doing as much as you believe in your fantasy of us having a life together."  
  
"So the last two years have been a dream?" No trace of hurt made its way into her voice; it seemed like a simple question.  
  
"No. But the future years are." He looked down at the city below them. "We can each have only one primary motivation. To make up for protecting you, I must show that I am willing to give you up for a time. And to make up for choosing me above your task, you must show that you are willing to act in a way that would betray me."  
  
She scoffed, a haughty and dismissive sound that made his muscles tense. "You direct me to betray you, but the fault is mine, then?"  
  
"The Van directs you to complete a mission. Only if you do so will you prove to me that we can continue to be equals."  
  
She desperately wanted to confront him with his order to Spike the night before, but knew that if he'd issued such a decree, he would be willing to seek the same fate for his own partner. Instead, she gathered her bag and coat and turned away from him, heading for the roof entry. "Let's go," she called back without looking at him again. "If it's showtime, get ready. You're going to watch."  
  
He felt a strange twist in his gut as he watched her walk away, and relief that she did not see his face.  
  
The roof entry was simply an elevator door; they descended in silence to the 30th floor and entered a long, anonymous hallway. Julia took note of the stairwell entrance, remembering it would not take her all the way to the roof, and read the names of several of the businesses on the doors they passed. Most seemed to be partnerships: probably financial fronts for illegal trade or legal firms representing the other building tenants.  
  
Vicious led her through a series of turns; keen-eyed, she watched which signs corresponded to each change in course. They came out into a wider passageway, better-lit, and Vicious stopped her.  
  
"Julia, this is important. Go along with what I say. If you want to be angry with me, do it later. Listen to my cues. If Manfred suspects foul play, we are in his territory and I would rather not have to kill him." He watched for her response, but she simply shrugged.  
  
"Can we keep moving?" she asked, her tone almost bored.  
  
Eventually, they came to the end of the hallway and a door marked "Manfred Freightways". The lettering peeled, a preview of the condition of the office beyond it – when Vicious opened the door, a dank, acrid smell drifted out and Julia fought to keep an expression of distaste from her features. They stood in a small waiting room, with two folding chairs in front of a battered desk. It lacked a phone, lamp, or anything else that might have been found on a desk; the blotter was covered in water damage rings. Julia noted that the clock on the wall was stuck at 3:22.  
  
After a moment, the door behind the desk – which Julia had assumed was a coat closet – banged open and her target came through. She swallowed, locked her knees and elbows to keep herself from shuddering, and forced what she hoped was an aloof but otherwise empty smile.  
  
Vicious extended a hand to Manfred, murmuring, "We meet again, Long Haul."  
  
Manfred's face moved – Julia hoped this was supposed to pass for a pleasant expression. His left eye was missing, and he wore no patch to cover it. Silvery scar tissue stretched over the socket instead, with faint puckering where the lids had been stitched together. The left side of his face was paralyzed, so that when he grinned his lips on that side hung open, slack and wet with saliva. His voice was equally moist and distorted.  
  
"Vicioush," he slurred, "We should do bushinesh more often." They shook, and Julia noted Manfred lacked fingers on both hands. He turned his remaining eye, ringed silver with cataract, to her. "Hello," he told her. "You make the room brighter!"  
  
She maintained the smile and bowed her head. "You are too kind."  
  
"Manfred, this is my wife Julia." Vicious put an arm around her shoulder, pulling her to his side. She looked up at him, the blank look frozen with the smile on her face, and he grinned back. "Darling, will you excuse us for just a few minutes?"  
  
"Certainly," she replied. It had taken considerable effort to unclench her jaw before speaking. Vicious nodded almost imperceptibly and released her.  
  
"Manfred, shall we discuss the details?"  
  
"Of courshe," he said. "She will not be joining ush?"  
  
"Later," Vicious said with a smile. "But first, we should agree to terms."  
  
Manfred's lopsided grin widened as he saw the steel case Vicious carried. "Come on, then," he mumbled, and went back to the door behind the desk. Vicious followed, not looking back, and the door closed behind them.  
  
Julia took a long, deep breath and let her body slowly relax. She wasn't sure what Vicious was playing at, and hated being expected to go along for the ride. She sat on one of the folding chairs, running her hands over her cropped leather jacket, making sure her weapons were still concealed in their proper places and nothing had shifted to become visible. She looked up at the clock on the wall, but it had not moved, and she realized her comm. was back on the zipcraft. With no way to measure the passing time, she put her feet up on the desk and settled in to wait.  
  
***  
  
Spike wiped a swath of steam away from the mirror of the Syndicate bathroom, a towel around his waist and his Jericho tucked in the back of it. He relished the feel of hot water on his face, the smell of shaving cream, the icy breath he sucked in after a good tooth-brushing. He hadn't realized how grimy he really felt until the blood, sweat and dirt were gone. Just as he finished shaving, a current of cold air buffeted him and in the mirror he saw Mao Yenrai come through the doorway.  
  
"Spike!" Mao exclaimed. "So good to see you up and around. Vicious had me worried you were knocking on heaven's door."  
  
The younger man chuckled. "No, I think he got carried away with that whole situation."  
  
"I hoped that was the case," Mao replied. "We were all concerned when we did not hear from you, or from him, that night."  
  
"Sorry about that." Spike rinsed the razor and began re-packing his shaving kit. "He sent me around to check up on Julia, and by the time I got back here, it was too late to wake anyone, since I wasn't dead."  
  
Mao let out a hearty laugh. "Indeed!" He raised his eyebrows. "Was Julia injured as well?"  
  
Spike turned to face him. "Vicious gave her a scare. He was angry at how the job played out." He hesitated. "Mao, can I ask you something in confidence?"  
  
Mao's expression slid instantly into seriousness. "Of course. Speak to me as you would to your father." For a moment, the rust-brown eyes of his protégé clouded. Spike's father had died defending Mao, so long ago now that it was like a movie he had seen as a child, rather than a real memory.  
  
"You have been a father to me, Mao. So I hope you will have good advice." Spike took a breath, unsure how to phrase the delicate admission. Mao simply waited, familiar with Spike's silences and well aware the young man was more observant than he let on.  
  
"Vicious didn't just overreact to my injury," he finally continued. "He seemed to take Julia's actions personally. He offered her a chance to leave the Syndicate."  
  
Mao nodded, his expression inscrutable. "Clearly, she did not accept his offer."  
  
Spike inhaled again and settled back to sit on the lip of the sink. "He sent me to make sure she didn't," he replied. "I didn't have to convince her, but it wasn't his place to make the offer, or to rescind it."  
  
Mao nodded again, watching Spike. "You are correct about that. But what is it you want to ask me?"  
  
"I suppose I have two questions. The hard one first: if he comes to me with the same request again, I won't carry any part of it out. And I want to know that no one else will do it either."  
  
Mao turned away to the urinal and Spike heard the soft sound of an expensive zipper. As he relieved himself, the older man replied, "You need only come to me, and your fears will be assuaged. You should have come to me last night."  
  
"I know. I've spent all morning thinking about the position he put me in."  
  
"You still care for Julia."  
  
"I've always cared for Julia. She's my friend." Spike took his shirt down from the hanger where he'd let it smooth out in the steam and began to dress.  
  
"I know what you felt for Julia in the beginning," Mao said, his voice echoing off the tile. "And I know what you feel for Vicious. Let neither of those things color the lens through which you see their actions."  
  
Spike sighed. "Good advice, as I had hoped. This stays between us, right?"  
  
"Of course it does, my son." Mao smiled at him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You said you had two questions. What is the easy one?"  
  
"Right." Spike smiled back sheepishly. "I, uh, need to find another apartment. Got any suggestions?"  
  
***  
  
Vicious accepted a drink from Manfred as he pulled up a stool to the worktable in the storeroom. Manfred poured another for himself and sat to face Vicious. "You've been doing well for yourshelf," he said with a lascivious grin. "She's a real peach."  
  
Vicious nodded. "She is lovely and talented."  
  
"Gahr, tell me a shtory!" Manfred downed his drink and wiped his mouth with a damp sleeve. "What she good at?"  
  
"Would you like to find out for yourself?" Vicious smirked over his glass.  
  
"I don't get it. What are you playing at, boy?" He leaned back, suspicious.  
  
"You see, I need to make a contact with a manufacturer." Vicious watched him closely as he went on. "I've brought something of mine here, that I think you might appreciate, in the hopes you would agree to make an introduction."  
  
Manfred cocked his eye at Vicious and got up to refill his glass. Over his shoulder, he called, "Would be a short reward in exchange for a long drought, by my account."  
  
Vicious chuckled. "I'm not looking to take away your business, Manfred. I'm just hoping to expand my own. You would be free to make your own arrangements for a commission."  
  
The old man considered as he finished his second drink. "What exactly would I get?"  
  
"A demonstration of Julia's considerable talents. A night to do whatever you wish with her, as long as she isn't harmed."  
  
"What do you conshider 'harmed'?" Manfred leered.  
  
"The first thing you'd like to do to a beautiful woman who'd do your bidding is hurt her?" Vicious fixed him with a glare.  
  
Manfred let out a booming laugh. "Oh, well, if you don't conshider a good banging to be 'harm', no harm would come to her."  
  
They sat, appraising one another. Manfred narrowed his eye. "My guarantee?"  
  
"Make the call to arrange the introduction. After I pick up what I've come to purchase from you, you'll have your evening with Julia. I'll be present, naturally, to make sure you don't make any attempt to call off the meeting." Manfred raised his eyebrow, but Vicious continued before he could interrupt. "We'll go straight to the manufacturer when your time is up." Vicious tipped the last of his whiskey back. "You should have another, Manfred. Don't want to be nervous when we go tell her about the date."  
  
Manfred opened his mouth to say he hadn't agreed to the terms, but thought better of it and went to the liquor cabinet again. "You're a shtrange one," he said with a chuckle. "Mosht men wouldn't think of thish, and if they did, they'd just bring me a whore."  
  
"You could get one of those yourself," Vicious replied. "As I said, I've brought you something of mine, something I know to be of quality, in exchange for a quality relationship with someone you know."  
  
"Oh, I get it. I jusht don't get why you'd let her near an old rustbucket like me." The third drink disappeared as quickly as the first two.  
  
"She owes me," Vicious said in a low tone, "And she won't object."  
  
"Well, then," Manfred said, slurring even more, "I think I have a phone call to make." 


	7. You Can't Always Get What You Want

VII. You Can't Always Get What You Want  
  
Annie looked up from her magazine at the jingle of bells and squinted into the afternoon sun. A tall, lanky figure filled the doorway, and she recognized the hair. "Spike!" she beamed at him and he waved as he let the door swing shut.  
  
"How are you, Annie?" he asked, pulling a stool up to the counter.  
  
"Can't complain. Gorgeous day. Seeing you makes it better." She set a mug down in front of him. "Have a cup of coffee with me?"  
  
He grinned. "That's exactly what I came to do."  
  
She looked at him sideways as she poured. "Rumors of your demise have been greatly exaggerated, I see."  
  
"Yep," he replied with a grimace, "Been hearing that all day."  
  
She nodded. "Mao called to tell me you were coming over. Why are you looking for a new place?"  
  
He shrugged, avoiding her eyes. "I had a little dispute with my landlady."  
  
She leaned forward, elbows on the counter. "What kind of a dispute?"  
  
"She let the ISSP in when I wasn't home. So I stopped paying her."  
  
Annie allowed a small chuckle. "I assume they didn't find anything, since I never heard about it. When was this?"  
  
"About six months ago."  
  
Her eyes bugged. "You haven't paid her for six months? Hard to help you find a new place when you still owe six months' rent, Spike."  
  
"Oh, I've paid her," he replied, "A couple of times, when she locked me in the place until I agreed to cough up."  
  
"Sounds like she knows how to handle you." In spite of her consternation, Annie smirked.  
  
"It was funny the first two times. Today, I just took my stuff out the window and left her yelling at the door in the hallway." Spike took a drink of coffee and looked up at her over the rim of the mug, eyes twinkling.  
  
She shook her head at him, but found it impossible to maintain a serious expression. "You are terrible," she said, "and I have no idea how I could recommend you as a tenant."  
  
"I can pay up front. It's not like I don't have the money," he replied, sulking.  
  
"Spike, these things matter. You still have to live in the real world." She put a hand on his arm. "It wouldn't make any difference if I vouched for you. As soon as that six months of late payments came up in the computer, Nicholas would show you the door."  
  
He sighed. "I could pay Rina, I suppose."  
  
Annie raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "It's past that point, you know. You have to start taking these things seriously. I know what you think – that nothing's permanent, that you can just live in the moment and let it all pile up until you get locked inside your own apartment, or until you die and there's nothing anyone can get out of you when you're gone." Her expression was patient, but sad. "You could do anything, Spike, but you only do what you have to in order to get by."  
  
He shrugged and hung his head. "There's not much I want, Annie. I just ... everything you're saying is true. And I woke up this morning thinking I wanted to make it better. I thought getting out of that dump might be a good start."  
  
She raised an eyebrow, watching him, trying to figure out if he was just playing her – God knew he was good at it, had been all his life. There wasn't much she could deny him. Candy bars when he was a young boy, tailing his father like a shadow; letting Julia move in when he called her, breathless, to tell her a beautiful girl with no place to stay was beating him at a game of Nine-Ball. At that memory, she brightened. "What about here?"  
  
He looked confused. "What about it?"  
  
"Julia's old room is empty. It's better than Rina's building. Although you'd have to make yourself useful – and you'd have to pay your rent."  
  
"Pay rent and make myself useful? Why not just one or the other?" Before she could retort, he winked and went on. "You'd really let me rent your room?"  
  
She gave him a hard look. "I don't want trouble here, you know that. The ISSP will leave you alone, at least. But if you're serious about trying to improve your situation, you can run deliveries for me – the food kind – and live in the room. I'll give you a good deal."  
  
He tried to keep the grin on his face from getting too wide, wondering if she knew he'd just gotten exactly what he came for.  
  
***  
  
Julia looked up as Vicious and Manfred emerged from the back room. By her accounting, humming an old melody to herself over and over, they hadn't even been gone five minutes. Manfred looked flushed, and she could smell whiskey on Vicious' breath when he took her hand and leaned in for a kiss. "Good," she thought to herself, "getting him drunk is good." The beginning of a plan had formed in her mind while the two talked, but she still didn't know enough to work out the details. "Where to next, darling?" she asked her husband-for-the-night, knowing he'd bristle at the term of affection, and that there was nothing he could say about it. She found herself almost enjoying the chance to needle him without consequence.  
  
"We'll pick up our purchase, and then we'll spend the evening at Manfred's," he replied in a smooth voice, no hint of irritation. "He's arranged an introduction for me. And he'd like to get to know you better in the time we have before our meeting." She felt his grip on her shoulder tighten as he went on. "I trust you will show him appreciation for his hospitality."  
  
Manfred let out a giggle that made her skin crawl, but she smiled back at Vicious - not trusting herself to look at the older man - and replied in similar tone, "It would be a pleasure." Manfred giggled again.  
  
Vicious shot him a sharp look, conspiratorial but still a warning. "The basement?" he prompted.  
  
"Oh, yeah. Yep, shtill down there, shame ash before." Manfred seemed to shake himself and rummaged in his pocket for a large key ring. Julia felt his eyes on her the entire time, and summoned her resolve to meet his gaze. He looked away immediately. "Follow me," he told them, and headed for the hallway.  
  
They rode the elevator all the way down to the lowest basement level, which turned out to be a storage facility converted from parking. Crates marked with the importation stamps of almost every dwelling place in the system rose in towering stacks on all sides, organized, it seemed, by final destination. They wound through the makeshift aisles, and Julia noticed that they circled back several times. Knowing Manfred thought he was preventing them from remembering the location of the contraband, she feigned disinterest as she counted the rows, listening to the click of her heels, the swish of Vicious' overcoat, and the shuffling steps of their guide. They finally stopped in an aisle devoted to "unclaimed" goods, orange tags declaring original shipper, contents, values and date of storage.  
  
Manfred gave a hard whack to the side of a crate addressed to "Arco Fuel Cell Recycling", and then pulled on the face of the crate, which gave way to reveal a jumble of metal canisters. Those, too, lifted away in a single piece - an artful bit of welding and solder - and behind the facade were racks of Red Eye vials, each engraved with a logo that featured the firing- pin end of a bullet with an eye's iris in the center. He took out four of the vial racks - she calculated them to be around twenty vials each - and set them on the floor.  
  
"They'll fit in your cashe," he said to Vicious - the first words he had spoken since the elevator ride. "And I got room now for what you're carrying."  
  
Vicious nodded and flicked at the combination keypad on the briefcase. The locks released with a soft click, and he opened it to show Manfred the contents.  
  
"I like getting cash," Manfred said with a leer. "Eashy to get rid of, good for good thingsh." He unloaded the stacks of bills into the crate and sealed it again while Vicious refilled his case.  
  
Vicious set the locks and rose, putting an arm around Julia's shoulder. It was a strange gesture, one he did not make any other time, and as they began to walk she was struck by how heavy it seemed, though she knew she carried none of his weight. It was claustrophobic, disorienting - he directed her steps with his own movement and she felt off-balance as they followed Manfred back through the maze. When their guide was a good ten feet in front of them, he leaned down and hissed in her ear, "Cooperate. Don't let him use his comm. Look like we're talking about something pleasant."  
  
She leaned her head against his chest to better muffle her own whisper. "I thought this was pleasant for you," she replied. "What did you promise him?"  
  
His fingers tightened, digging into her shoulder until she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting. "This has been unpleasant from the beginning," he said, his voice raspy. "You'll do what he asks from the time we reach his house until we leave for the meeting."  
  
"I assume he doesn't plan to have me wash his dishes?" She shrugged slightly and put on a half-smile as Manfred turned to wait for them.  
  
Vicious let out what she instantly recognized as a false, forced laugh. "That would be wonderful, wouldn't it, peach?" he replied at full volume. "Manfred, we've done enough work for the day. Julia can ride with you and I'll follow. You can get acquainted." He finally relinquished his grip on her.  
  
She nodded, putting on her best simple-and-obedient air, and winked at Manfred.  
  
He blushed scarlet and looked away, staring at the moving LED on the elevator panel while they waited for the car.  
  
She used the long ascent to clear her head, thinking through the possible scenarios for the evening. Her first order of business, she decided, was to get Manfred as intoxicated as possible. He seemed shy and she knew it was a risk; alcohol might make him bolder and less manageable. But at the same time, experiences she usually tried not to remember had taught her that a drunk man was a pliable man, and her best hope for the night involved getting him to a point where she could subdue him entirely. She weighed the risk of letting Vicious remain in their company, since he would probably consider her plan a deviation from his own. Much as she liked the idea of forcing him to be present, to watch her carry out his twisted mission - he had given more away than he meant to by his earlier reaction, and she knew now he was angry at the very thought of her with Manfred - she dreaded actually going through with it even more. And she was unsure whether he would appreciate her ability to sidestep the issue, or whether he'd vindictively force the worst possible outcome.  
  
They arrived at the roof, and Manfred gave Vicious coordinates for his home. Then he very formally offered his arm to Julia, and with a small smile, asked, "Shall we?"  
  
She smiled back, realizing she was glad for the opportunity to be away from Vicious. She took the proffered arm and waved to her "husband", saying, "See you soon, love!" with more chirp than was probably necessary. Vicious rewarded her with a look that would peel paint and boarded the ship, shutting the hatch without a word.  
  
Manfred looked like he wasn't sure where to go next, and a brief wave of fear ran through her. If he tried anything now, she was in no position to decline without risking the next day's meeting. But he seemed to come to a conclusion, and turned back to the elevator. "I park on the shtreet," he said simply.  
  
The elevator ride began in silence again, but she knew it would be best to make conversation. "How long have you known Vicious?" she asked, turning to face Manfred.  
  
"Oh, at least ten yearsh," he replied, fighting to hold her gaze but periodically looking away with obvious discomfort. "Shince before he joined Red Dragon. He worked for me on Jupiter, loading ship."  
  
She nodded, thinking to herself that she might learn more about her lover from this stranger than from the man himself. "He would have been, what, fifteen or so?"  
  
"I never ashked. Young and shtrong and quiet, did hish job." Manfred lowered his eyes. "I don't make good convershation anymore," he admitted. "I talk funny."  
  
She shrugged and encouraged, "It doesn't bother me. Do you mind if I ask what happened?"  
  
He chuckled. "That shtory would be for later, if I tell it. Or Vicioush could tell you."  
  
She turned the wattage down a little and demurred, "Vicious doesn't tell me very much about anything. I was surprised when he asked me to come along."  
  
Manfred stared straight ahead as he asked, "You know why you're here?"  
  
"Of course," she replied. "He wanted to introduce you to me." This was easier than she expected. She might be able to parlay his hesitancy into borrowed time.  
  
He cleared his throat. "What do you like to do?"  
  
Shrugging, she gave his arm a squeeze. "I like music; jazz mostly. Old movies. I've never been to Ganymede," she embellished. "Are there any good jazz clubs here?"  
  
Gravity increased for a moment as the elevator slid to a stop. He smiled that strange half-smile, less threatening now than it had seemed at first, and said, "I can find shomething you would like."  
  
***  
  
Vicious had arrived ahead of them, and they rejoined in the lobby. He noted Manfred's more relaxed expression and Julia's faint smile, and fought back a pang of nervousness as he wondered what had caused the change in mood.  
  
Julia beamed at him. "Manfred's going to take us to a jazz club," she announced. Manfred nodded, adding, "After we eat."  
  
Vicious put on a half-smile and inclined his head. He admired the way she had shaved the time she'd have to spend at Manfred's apartment, but hoped it wouldn't mean more opportunity for Manfred to be alone and call off the meeting, or that he would consider the trade inequitable after the fact. He seemed pleased, though, and more comfortable in her company as they rode up to his floor. Manfred's home reflected the income his activities afforded him far more than his run-down office. He lived in a high-floor apartment overlooking the bay, not elegantly furnished but obviously expensive.  
  
Manfred busied himself in the kitchen, and Julia ingratiated herself by offering to help prepare the meal. Vicious sat stock-still on the couch, disconcerted by the feeling of being a third wheel with his woman and a man he had expected to terrify her. They ate in a blur of companionable chatter; he learned Manfred had told her about their time working together and remained tight-lipped about the history, other than to acknowledge what Manfred said.  
  
For a brief moment, his mood lifted when Julia offered to clear the table and wash the dishes; he couldn't help but laugh at the way she twisted Manfred's will and her own earlier snide remark into an in-joke. But he descended into a funk again when they prepared to leave for the club - he'd grown weary of socializing, but knew Manfred would inevitably be alone, whether in a bathroom or on a drink run, if he didn't go along. Finding it harder and harder to keep a scowl from his face, he followed them down to Manfred's car and rode alone in the back seat through the twisting highways and side streets of Ganymede.  
  
***  
  
Manfred's taste in jazz clubs likely had more to do with the cheapness of the liquor and the visual quality of the entertainers than any real appreciation for music. They landed in a smoke-filled room with mismatched chairs and tables, listening to a buxom woman in a teddy and thigh-high boots slog through impossibly stylized renditions of 20th-century jazz standards, accompanied by a sallow man on the piano and a grim-looking drummer who kept metronomic time on his snare and high hat. Julia ordered a martini, while Manfred ordered the harried waitress to bring a bottle of good whiskey for he and Vicious to share.  
  
The martini lasted nearly an hour through her sleight of hand, while Manfred polished off most of the whiskey and Vicious declined, claiming he wanted to be clear-headed for the meeting the following morning. A small voice in Julia's head warned her that Manfred was indeed becoming bolder; by the end of the set, he was clutching at her knee every time he addressed her, the grip moving higher on her leg with each line of the conversation. When he finally rose to go to the bathroom, Vicious shadowed him unnoticed, and Julia sat back in her chair, waving off the waitress and thinking hard.  
  
She hadn't wanted to resort to the best trick in her arsenal, but she realized with increasing dread that Manfred could hold his liquor and that he'd been promised free reign of all her assets; in addition, he seemed unlikely to forget that promise. It would be a test of skills she had not used in a long time to pull off her plan without him noticing, and even more of a challenge to keep Vicious in the dark as well.  
  
"Women are all liars," she reminded herself, coming to a decision, and she kept a wary eye on the bathroom door as she dug into her bag for the vial of "sleeping draught", as her streetwise Venusian companion had called it when she first learned the trick. She snapped off the top and palmed it carefully, taking hold of a napkin so it concealed the flat ampoule, and smiled brightly as Manfred returned to the table, Vicious a few steps behind.  
  
"The set's over," she said wistfully. "This was really nice. Thank you, Manfred." She used her free hand to cup his face, and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek, but did not dare to look at Vicious.  
  
The Manfred who apologized for his speech impediment had faded with each drink, and now he gave a bawdy guffaw. "Well, then," he slurred, close to her face and reeking of alcohol, "it'sh a good time to go back to my houshe and finish the night off proper!" He leered and squeezed her thigh.  
  
She held his gaze with the best come-hither expression she could muster and purred, "I agree." And while he watched her face, she lifted the glass she'd refilled for him, took a drink, and delicately arched her wrist as she set it back on the table, allowing the contents of the vial to run down into it with the settling liquid.  
  
"Ooh!" she gasped, wide-eyed, "That's good. Finish up, darling, you've already bought the bottle."  
  
He grinned, menacing again, and for a moment she thought he'd decline. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Vicious watching her intently as she wiped her hands with her napkin and dropped it on the tray of a passing cocktail waitress. Manfred finally took the glass, tipped it back in a single long drink, and stood, swaying.  
  
"Come on, then," he said to her - completely ignoring, or else having forgotten, that Vicious stood next to him. "All the good partsh of me work jusht fine." As she rose, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her in close; she didn't want to kiss him in case the chemical was still on his lips and in his mouth, but he growled and bit her neck in a clumsy attempt at eroticism instead. She put her arms around him, eyes locked with Vicious and an expression of loathing on her face, and murmured, "I'm not shy, but we should continue this somewhere less public."  
  
Manfred drew back, seeming to notice Vicious anew. "Ah, right!' he exclaimed.  
  
"I'll drive," Vicious replied in an icy voice.  
  
"Good, good!" Manfred was ebullient; Julia felt panic creeping from her stomach up into her throat. Perhaps she had underestimated his weight and tolerance, or perhaps the sleeping draught lost potency over time. She steeled her resolve and guided Manfred to the door with one arm around his shoulder, following Vicious to the car. She tried to ignore the feel of Manfred's hands roaming, the fact that she could tell he was missing fingers, the way he slid them over her body as though he were touching an inanimate object. She'd never seen anyone hold out for longer than a few minutes against the drug, and most were incapacitated almost instantly.  
  
At the car, Manfred opened the back door as Vicious went around to the driver's side. Julia thought for a moment he'd let go, but instead he grasped her roughly by the lapels of her jacket and shouted, "Get in, woman!" as he pushed her backward onto the bench seat. She heard a hiss as Vicious inhaled, but had no time to think about it – the older man's body loomed in the doorway, blacking out the night sky and the streetlamps behind him. He reached out for her with both arms, laughing, and fell forward, a crushing weight that pressed her weapons painfully against her ribs. She waited, holding her breath, for his next move – but none came.  
  
After a moment, she managed to croak out, "Manfred?" as she pushed ineffectively at his shoulders, but the man was out cold. "Oh, Jesus," she breathed, wriggling to extricate herself. Vicious looked over his shoulder at the two of them, comprehension dawning on his features.  
  
"What did you do?" he hissed.  
  
She turned to him and spoke in a whisper. "Shut up," she retorted, the words clipped. "Drive."  
  
He seemed to understand that it was best not to discuss anything in front of Manfred, whether he appeared unconscious or not, and started the engine while Julia struggled to pull the heavy form inside the car and get the door closed. She sat back, scrunched against the opposite door to allow room for Manfred's body, taking deep breaths to slow her racing heart. Vicious wound through the streets efficiently, cutting corners sharp and gunning the engine at every straightaway, until they reached Manfred's building.  
  
After parking, he turned in his seat and surveyed the scene. He made a kind of sign language gesture, seeming to ask, "is he dead?"  
  
Julia shook her head and steepled her hands beside her face – "sleeping."  
  
Vicious frowned, but said nothing. He got out of the car and came around to Manfred's side, lifting the man out and carrying him soldier-style, one limp arm over his shoulder. Julia followed and gestured for Vicious to wait while she entered the lobby. She emerged a moment later and beckoned; the place was deserted and she'd already called the elevator. The silence continued for the ride up, until they reached Manfred's door.  
  
"Keys," Vicious said, giving her a look that suggested she hadn't been thinking ahead.  
  
"They're in your hand," she replied. "You drove, remember?"  
  
He raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment and handed the key ring to her; after a few tries, she found the right one and they were safe inside Manfred's apartment. Vicious carried him to the bedroom and deposited him on the bed, reemerging with a murderous expression.  
  
"That was an idiotic stunt," he said in a half-whisper. "He'll call off the meeting as soon as he wakes up."  
  
"I'm not finished," she hissed back. "He won't wake up for at least another four hours, and he won't remember passing out."  
  
"I don't get you. He's not going to be pleased that you got him so drunk he couldn't collect on his payment." Vicious spat the words at her, relief outweighed by the prospect of an ugly confrontation in the morning.  
  
"He won't admit he doesn't remember," she said, and began taking off her jacket. "You're going to have to help me get him undressed."  
  
Vicious stared. While he tried to process what she meant, she continued to strip until she wore nothing but a camisole and satin thong.  
  
She sighed. "We get him undressed. I get in bed with him. He wakes up with me. He has no memory of what happened, but he's not going to admit it."  
  
"You've done this before." She couldn't tell from his expression whether he was relieved or disturbed.  
  
"Better than having followed through with it before, isn't it?" She turned her back on him and went into the bedroom.  
  
In a moment, Vicious followed, helping her remove boots and buckles and clothing without a word. When Manfred was completely naked – a sight neither of them took any pleasure in – she went to rummage in her bag and returned with her perfume, spritzing it around the room, on the sheets, and on the slumbering man. Satisfied, she pulled off her camisole, mussed her hair, and turned to her lover.  
  
"I suggest you sleep on the couch," she told him as she stepped out of the last of her clothing. "I don't think the bed's big enough for all of us." 


	8. If

VIII. If  
  
Julia lay awake, listening to the sounds of aircraft, boats and cars that drifted in through the window she'd cracked open. Manfred snored, deep and even, beside her; she lay as far away from him as the narrow bed would allow, glad she had slept on the trip from Mars. If she fell asleep now, she risked losing control of the situation – although she hoped the combination of the alcohol and the drug would not keep him down past the time they were supposed to leave in the morning.  
  
The first dawn light pinked the sky when he stirred, no more than a hitch in his breathing. She grimaced and stretched, sliding over and lifting his arm to curl beneath it, trying to avoid any more contact than was necessary to give him the illusion he'd fallen asleep in that position. She held her breath for a good thirty seconds, but he did not move again, and by slow degrees she relaxed. She was drifting in hazy half-consciousness, daydreaming again of that first night in Tharsis City, when Vicious poked his head in the door.  
  
He surveyed the scene with no attempt to hide his disgust and stage- whispered, "We have to leave in an hour."  
  
Julia's gave him a look to acknowledge the order, waving him away. He withdrew after a moment's hesitation, closing the door softly.  
  
"Manfred?" she asked in a low voice. He mumbled but did not move, so she turned to face him, putting a hand on his shoulder to shake it gently. "Hey, sleepyhead," she said a bit louder, "it's time for us to get up."  
  
He opened his eye, bleary and disoriented, and blinked as he took in the scene. She kept her expression neutral as he stared at her, eyes roaming over her body, and held still despite the stench that wafted over when he yawned.  
  
"I..." He blinked again, ran a rough hand over her breast, and seemed to be fighting confusion.  
  
She smiled at him and kissed him on the cheek. "Who gets the first shower? Vicious is up already - I heard him earlier, but you looked like you needed to sleep."  
  
He sat up, and she shivered as the blankets followed his body, leaving her completely exposed. He sat staring at her, rubbing his jaw.  
  
"I'll go," he replied groggily. She knew he was trying to fill in the blank that began with manhandling her into the car and ended waking up next to her. He seemed about to say something else, but finally stumbled out of the bed and lurched to the bathroom door, slamming it behind him. She heard a clatter, a thump, and then the sound of violent vomiting.  
  
Vicious knocked on the bedroom door and then opened it without pause. He looked from Julia to the closed bathroom door and whispered, "Do we have a problem?"  
  
She grinned. "No."  
  
He nodded and closed the door again; she got up to dress, waiting until she heard the sound of the shower to join him in the living room.  
  
For a moment, she felt fear as he crossed the room to meet her, long strides closing the gap. She couldn't read his expression, but he simply wrapped his arms around her and pressed his face to her neck, and she relaxed, returning the embrace.  
  
"I was wrong," he murmured, his tone more human than she'd ever heard it. "I was wrong, and I apologize."  
  
She pulled back and took his face in her hands. "Wrong about what?" she prompted.  
  
The admission was already more than she had hoped for, so she was surprised when he replied.  
  
"Wrong about you. Wrong about your motivations. Wrong to think my solution was the only one that would make the situation right." He dropped his gaze and raised his hands to take hers. "I do not deserve forgiveness, but I hope this can be a new beginning for you, the way it is for me."  
  
Her head swam, lack of sleep and confusion putting her off-balance. She wanted desperately to believe him, but doubt and fear would not allow it. Her heart pounded in her chest as she said, "I loved you. I loved you and you told me to go. I loved you and you asked me to betray you."  
  
He raised his eyes to meet hers and she fought to hide her anguish. "And I was wrong," he repeated, "to think you could not handle yourself."  
  
She sighed. "This has been too long and strange a day, Vicious. We can talk on the way home." She pulled free of his grasp and turned away as Manfred emerged from the bedroom, dressed but still foggy, swaying when he walked.  
  
"I need a shower," she said as evenly as she could manage. "Do you want me to come along this morning?"  
  
"Of courshe," Manfred said enthusiastically, at the same time Vicious replied, "It won't be necessary." The two men looked at each other, and Manfred deferred, telling Julia, "Make yourshelf right at home."  
  
"You're very kind." She closed the bedroom door, glad to be alone and glad to leave Vicious to the task of assuring his business partner the night before had gone as planned.  
  
She heard them talking and preparing to leave, but tried not to listen to what was being said. She climbed into the shower with steam rising all around her, and found herself too weary to stand, so she sat back in the tub and let the water pour down, washing away the stale smell of Manfred's bed, too much perfume, and the smoke from the club that clung to her hair.  
  
Part of her had instantly crumbled when Vicious apologized, and she hated the feeling. She had survived for the last ten years by not trusting anyone and following her gut instincts. His apology seemed sincere, but it had come from the same mouth that ordered her execution if she tried to leave. She knew so little of his past, though she'd intuited their similarities and understood those similarities made them a good match. She never questioned whether he was trustworthy, but she realized she had confused loyalty with trustworthiness – or at least, she had misappropriated his loyalty to the Syndicate and thought it extended to her as well. He'd never told her he loved her; told her she was beautiful, yes, and talented, and charming, and irresistible – but with growing dismay, she realized he'd never expressed anything about his feelings for her because they were all wrapped up in what he saw her doing, rather than who she was.  
  
She scrubbed off the last of the night before and dressed. Since the silent, empty apartment held nothing of interest, she finally settled on the couch, and sleep took her before she could think any more about how the last strange day had played out.  
  
***  
  
Late morning sun glinted off the buildings and the bay as Vicious' zipcraft ascended toward the gate. He'd had almost nothing to say since the meeting. Settled in the jump seat, Julia tuned out the radio's familiar chatter and watched the scenery until they had passed the last guide ring.  
  
Vicious set the autopilot and turned halfway in his seat to look at her. She looked back, unsure why their usually companionable silence seemed so strained now.  
  
"I gave Manfred a few things to think about," he finally said. "I'm certain he was suspicious, but you were right that he would not admit it."  
  
Julia chuckled. "I figured as much when he woke up. If he wouldn't say anything to me, he'd never let you know he couldn't stay awake to deflower your wife." She leaned her head against the bubble of the cockpit.  
  
"I meant what I said this morning," he went on. "You have a different approach. I admire that. It can be valuable to me as much as to you."  
  
"What would you have done if I really had sex with him?" she asked, cautious but hoping his frame of mind would temper whatever bothered him about the sentimental nature of the question.  
  
He sighed. "The Van -"  
  
She stopped him. "I didn't ask about the Van. I want to know what you would have felt."  
  
"I would have felt disgust," he replied.  
  
"At me?"  
  
"At both of you. At the thought of you with him. Probably at the thought of you with me."  
  
"Well, then, I'm glad I handled it my way." She tried not to make it sound like an accusation.  
  
"I have already said as much." He turned forward again and she watched him fiddle with controls that needed no adjustment.  
  
"Vicious, I have to know something. The truth," she added.  
  
He didn't face her, but nodded for her to continue.  
  
"Did you send Spike to kill me if I tried to leave?"  
  
She heard him inhale sharply. "He told you," he said, his voice flat.  
  
She was glad he couldn't see her face; it made the lie easier. "No. You just did."  
  
He squared his shoulders. "I gave him an order I knew he wouldn't carry out."  
  
She considered this, and remembered thinking much the same thing that night. "You took the chance he would."  
  
"I trusted he would be able to convince you to stay, if you wanted to go - though I also did not believe you would do it."  
  
"Don't play games like that with me again, Vicious," she admonished. "I did nothing to lose your trust on an order with your behavior."  
  
He whirled in his seat, irritation on his face, but it faded when he saw her furious expression. "I doubted myself more than I doubted you," he admitted.  
  
She searched his eyes. "Promise me. You want honesty and reliability from me. You owe me the same in return."  
  
"I promise," he said softly, looking down, and she didn't have the energy to disbelieve him any longer.  
  
"All right, then. A fresh start for both of us?"  
  
He nodded. "And one that will go well, I believe. What I learned this morning will please the Van."  
  
She didn't answer; he always had both eyes on business, but for the first time it bothered her. She wanted this to be about them, two people, rather than about them as Syndicate members. He went back to the control panel and she shifted in her seat, looking for a more comfortable position. At least the silence didn't seem so ominous now; the hypnotic slipstream of hyperspace flashed by outside the cockpit and her mind wandered through the years before Tharsis City, searching for anything that made it seem better than where she was now.  
  
***  
  
The insistent buzzing of her comm. woke Julia from half-slumber and she rummaged around her seat for it. They were out of the slipstream, in the guide rings to Mars, and now that they were back in range she saw a half- dozen message notifications – all from Spike. His number appeared in the I.D. window this time as well, and she pressed the answer key as she rubbed the grit from her eyes. "Spike," she said, stifling a yawn.  
  
"Yo." She held the comm. so he could see that she was inside Vicious' ship, and he hesitated.  
  
"We're just coming in," she told him. "I haven't heard the messages."  
  
"Oh. Well, never mind. I was just checking to see if you two were back yet." He made a "don't" motion with his hand and she nodded.  
  
"I'll see you tomorrow," she replied. "Do you need to talk to Vicious?"  
  
"Nope. Tell him hello." Spike looked downcast as he cut the connection.  
  
"Messages?" Vicious asked.  
  
"Two," she invented, thinking it seemed like a safe number. "Did you tell him where we were going?"  
  
"Yes." He took the craft out of autopilot and began the diagonal traverse, crossing over the planet's surface toward the city lights. "I'll come to your apartment."  
  
"Good. I need to change." Julia rubbed ruefully at the insides of her elbows, where the leather had dug deep creases while they flew.  
  
***  
  
"You are the most beautiful woman in the universe," Vicious declared when Julia emerged from her bedroom in simple – and far more comfortable – black pants and a tank top.  
  
"Beautiful and ravenous," she replied. "How can you go so long without eating?"  
  
He shrugged. "I grew up hungry. Got bored of feeling it."  
  
"So did I. And I don't like feeling it now that I don't have to," she said over her shoulder as she rummaged in the fridge.  
  
She stood up with a container of pasta from the night they went to Henshai's and bumped directly into Vicious. He took the container from her hand and set it on the counter before wrapping his arms around her waist. "You'd best eat well," he whispered in her ear as his hands slid lower. "I owe you tonight."  
  
In spite of everything, her body responded to his as it had done from the beginning – with a flush of heat and an ache for more contact. She raised her head and kissed him, surprised at how comforting his familiar smell and taste could be, after the long night spent beside Manfred. He'd learned her body and reactions well over their two years, and wasted no time employing his most successful techniques – gently biting down on her tongue as he slid his hand beneath her shirt to graze her shoulder blades with his fingernails. She shivered, pressing against him, but he pulled back with a wicked smile.  
  
"Eat your dinner," he urged. "Get your strength up." He sat down on the couch and crossed his legs, waving a hand at her. "Go on."  
  
Between the hunger and the confusion, she was glad of a respite. Vicious' apology and his much-changed demeanor ever since morning on Ganymede weighed heavily in his favor, but it had been barely three days, counting all the hours in travel, since he'd ordered Spike to make her stay. She wanted to believe his explanation more than anything. Even so, in some corner of her mind, she found it disingenuous – Vicious trusted Spike in a battle more than any other person. When the three of them first met, Vicious had said of his partner: "He fears neither death nor remorse." And Julia had seen for herself how Spike's easygoing personality could invert like a sea anemone, turning to armor and venom in the blink of an eye. As good as he was with a firearm, she knew his real skill was in hand-to-hand combat, and that he enjoyed it. So when he'd sat on the couch – where Vicious sat now, she thought with a pang of something like remorse – and talked to her, she'd been shocked at how human and gentle he could be. Maybe Vicious knew this side of him, but she doubted it.  
  
As she licked the last of the pesto from her fork, Vicious rose and extended his hand. "Please," he said, his voice a husky baritone, "I'm hungry too."  
  
She knew the look he gave her well, but tonight it seemed tempered by need. His self-control had been his most impressive asset when they first became lovers, and she was surprised when he lifted her in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. Confusion gave way to abandon, though, when he slid a hand down the front of her pants and drove his fingers deep. He watched her writhe, propped on one elbow with a smile on his lips, leaning in every once in a while to kiss her throat; when he'd brought her to the brink, he released her and offered, "help me with my tie?"  
  
She turned to him, flushed and glassy-eyed. "My pleasure," she breathed, and rose to her knees, loosening the knot with slow, deliberate twists. "This is my favorite part."  
  
He chuckled deep in his chest. "I think you're lying."  
  
"I'm not," she countered. "I love unwrapping presents." Some part of her felt like it was watching the proceedings; this was so familiar, their dance of words while they undressed, and yet she couldn't believe she was doing it.  
  
She pulled the strip of cloth free and went to work on the hooks of his shirt while he shrugged out of his jacket. When she had his shirt off, she sat back on her heels to look. "I don't think I can wait until Christmas."  
  
He lifted her tank top over her head with a single rough yank. "We can have anything we want, whenever we want," he replied, and pushed her back so he could remove her leggings. "Someday, it will all be ours."  
  
It was a familiar duet – a tangle of words, challenges and their bodies. Words gave way to a passionate kiss, broken when he entered her and they both gasped in pleasure. He had little need of his disciplined stamina – her body began to shake almost immediately, and he growled with satisfaction as they came together. Propped on his elbows, with his hair hanging down around her face like a curtain, she saw again the man she had fallen for, and didn't care if the image was enhanced by euphoria. He leaned in to kiss her, much more gently than before, and stroked her side as he shifted to lie beside her.  
  
"Am I forgiven?" he asked.  
  
"Do you love me?" She drifted in a pleasant fog; the revelation had bothered her since the day before, though she managed to make it sound like a nonchalant question.  
  
He did not look at her. "Love is a weakness that limits our choices."  
  
"I am not weak."  
  
He hesitated. "Sooner or later, you will be confronted with a choice between love and survival. There will be no third door, no trinket in your handbag or weapon in your arsenal that can make it anything other than a decision to live or perish. Survival is the strongest instinct, Julia, and that means we are all doomed to betray those we think we love."  
  
She shook her head. "Your whole life in the Syndicate negates that idea, Vicious."  
  
He chuckled and sat up, the moonlight frosting the tips of his long gray hair and etching the shape of his muscles in white. "Why have you never asked me about my life before I came here?"  
  
"I've lived the kind of life I don't like to talk about. I can recognize the same in other people," she replied. "But you can't blame me for wanting to know what I mean to you, why you're still here, after everything that's happened in the past few days."  
  
He leaned back, looking down at his feet, and did not answer for a while. She felt herself drifting, watching him breathe, the rise and fall of his chest like an old black and white movie in the bluish light. Finally, he spoke.  
  
"Julia, I am not a sociopath. I've just learned firsthand what limits love has."  
  
She looked up at him, frowning. "That's a little vague."  
  
He nodded. "I have never told this story to anyone."  
  
"Please tell it to me," she said gently.  
  
He hung his head and spoke with his eyes closed. "My father used to launder money for the White Tigers through his Mono-garage. For years he skimmed a little extra every transaction. He grew careless and greedy."  
  
Julia snapped alert at the mention of a White Tiger connection, though she tried not to show her surprise. Vicious' desire to eliminate the rival Syndicate altogether was no secret, but this certainly was.  
  
"He was caught. I was thirteen when they came the first time. They broke his toes and forced me to watch." His voice was steady, rote, as though he'd told the story in his head a thousand times but never had to deliver it. "He agreed to work on all of their Mono-craft for free, to work off the debt. But he could not make time for his own customers with everything they brought him. It went on forever – two years, I think. My mother left. He sent me out to steal parts when he couldn't get anyone to give him credit anymore."  
  
Julia moved closer, laying a hand against his hip. "I'm sorry. I never imagined."  
  
He didn't seem to hear her. "I woke up one morning, and he was gone. I was sure they had come and killed him. I wanted to go out and hunt them down, kill them all, but before I'd even gotten dressed, one of the Tigers rolled up in a Mono-racer and asked where he was. And I realized he had left... left me there to whatever fate the Syndicate would assign me."  
  
She sat up and wrapped her arms around his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin, where she could feel the rumble of his voice.  
  
"They took me back to some shopfront and grilled me for hours. Who did he know; what friends did we correspond with? The more they hounded me, the more I began to think I knew where he had gone. He always talked about a place on Earth, a city in the shadow of a mountain where the meteors, he said, just passed on by. I never really believed him – but I wondered if he believed it himself.  
  
"It did not even occur to me to tell them where I thought he was at first. I was so focused on not letting them wear me down that I just kept refusing to answer. They broke my fingers, my toes, electrocuted me."  
  
She shivered, and for the first time he acknowledged her, putting an arm around her body.  
  
"Eventually they cuffed me to a chair and left me alone. I must have been there a day, maybe two, in a storeroom. It ran together. When they returned, they told me they had put out word they would kill me if my father didn't show himself – and he did not."  
  
He moved back to look into her eyes. "Julia, everyone says the love between parent and child is the strongest, most unconditional love in the universe, but it doesn't matter. I know because he never came back."  
  
"They let you go?" she asked, trying to keep her voice from breaking.  
  
He smiled then, but the expression was terrifying, joyless and haunted. "I told them I had realized where he was during the time they left me sitting by myself. And I told them I would give him up if they promised to let me go."  
  
"Oh," she breathed, and he looked down again, though he cradled her face in his hand in a strange, tender gesture. "Was he there?"  
  
"We all have an innate will to survive. He had it, and I forgave him for it. I had it, and I managed to succeed. They must have found him, because I still live."  
  
Julia tightened her hold on him, her mind racing. All this time, he had known how similar their pasts were – because she had told him, almost at the beginning. But he had kept his own hidden, and now she was the only one to know his secret, his motivation, the weight he carried.  
  
He returned the embrace at first, burying his face in her hair, but when a few seconds had passed he abruptly stood and began to dress.  
  
"You don't have to go," she said. "I wish you wouldn't."  
  
His grim expression matched his voice. "I have to make my report to the Van." He pulled on his boots.  
  
"Let me tie your tie," she offered. "Please."  
  
He came to sit on the edge of the bed, looking off into space. She tied the knot slowly, unsure what to say. It was Vicious who broke the silence.  
  
"The Syndicate has taken care of me, because I fulfill my obligations to them, because I am useful to them. And one day, it will be mine, because everyone else is forever weighing their emotions and their desires against their obligations. You wanted to know what you are to me. You are the one pleasure I allow myself, the one person whose happiness can make me happy as well. I want you to be with me when I take over the Red Dragon. I know I will be stronger if you are."  
  
He pulled her close, kissing her jaw, her cheek, her eyelid, her forehead. "You surprised me and impressed me on Ganymede. If I loved anyone, I would love you."  
  
Before she could think of an answer, he rose and was gone.  
  
Julia wasn't sure how long she sat, replaying Vicious' story in her mind. She didn't catch his meaning at first, but it came to her now that he had not only been betrayed by his father; his attitude stemmed from the fact that he had returned the betrayal in kind. She wondered if his mother still lived, or if she had been used as similar leverage, and realized Vicious either wondered the same thing, or knew the answer.  
  
He was always adamant that business drove his desire to shut down the White Tiger syndicate. The one time they had spoken of the goal in detail, Spike's opposition to it was a source of much debate. For her part, Julia sided with Spike - though the existence of the two clans made for frequent bloodshed, it also divided the loyalties of the ISSP and prevented them from making any real attempt to shut down the syndicates altogether.  
  
Thinking of Spike, she remembered the messages on her comm. and went to get it, shivering in the night air. She returned to bed with her bathrobe and the comm., pressing the playback key.  
  
Spike's face appeared on the screen. His surroundings looked oddly familiar. "Hey. Please call me when you get back."  
  
She skipped forward.  
  
"I hope you're all right. Check in?"  
  
"Annie was asking about you. Thought I would see if you were back -"  
  
She chuckled and skipped again.  
  
"Yo."  
  
"Julia, I'm worried. Thought you'd be back by now."  
  
"It's Friday. Friday afternoon. If I don't hear from you tonight, I'm coming looking."  
  
She sighed. Apparently, he'd had the same fear she did before they'd left for Ganymede. She checked the time - barely ten - and dialed his code.  
  
He picked up on the first ring, and she switched on the lamp, realizing he wouldn't see anything onscreen. "Hey!" he greeted her enthusiastically.  
  
"I'm fine, Spike." She smiled at the camera. "But your concern is sweet."  
  
He looked embarrassed. "I just - Vicious seemed better when he left, but you worried me when I called you."  
  
"I'm sorry. I was worried myself, but it went off without a hitch."  
  
"Who'd you go see - Manfred?"  
  
She wrinkled her nose. "You know him?"  
  
"Met him once, but I didn't remember until after you'd left. He didn't try anything on you, did he? The guy's a world-class weirdo."  
  
She realized she never wanted to talk about those two days with anyone again. "I didn't have any trouble dealing with him," she said, looking for a way to change the subject. "Where are you?"  
  
He grinned. "Look familiar?"  
  
"Yes, but then again, so do you."  
  
He turned the comm. around in a slow pan and it came to her. "What are you doing in my room?"  
  
"Well, technically, you're in your room, and I'm in my room." His face reappeared. "I'm renting from Annie."  
  
She raised her eyebrows. "Rina finally kicked you out? I figured you'd just live in the library."  
  
He looked a little sheepish. "I ditched. But the problem with the library is that everybody wanders in and out. Except you. Why didn't you ever wander in?"  
  
She laughed. "I always figured I'd wake you up if I went in there."  
  
"I'm not that lazy," he came back, putting on his best wounded face. "I like it in there because I can read."  
  
"You can?" she bantered, grinning. "I always thought you were a thug."  
  
"You slay me," he moaned, clapping a hand to his chest, but he was smiling as well. "I'm a literate thug, I'll have you know."  
  
She nodded. "And probably the nicest one I know."  
  
"Don't let that get out," he said with mock seriousness. "Vicious would banish me to the ice mines."  
  
There was no avoiding the subject. "I got him to admit what he sent you here to do," she said. "I thought you should know, in case he asks you about it."  
  
He didn't answer at first. She watched his expression transform from amusement to worry. "You told him what I said?"  
  
"No, of course not. I asked if he sent you to kill me, he asked if you told me, and I said he'd answered me by asking the question."  
  
Spike chuckled. "You're good. Remind me not to get on your bad side."  
  
She smiled. "I meant it, Spike, that I trust you. And that you're nice. But I won't let on."  
  
He seemed far away, and stretched, cracking his neck. "Thank you," he finally said, "on both accounts. Where's our better third now?"  
  
"Went to see the Van about a manufacturer."  
  
"How'd he manage to get that bit of information?"  
  
She looked down. "That was my job."  
  
Comprehension dawned on his features. "Please tell me -"  
  
She shook her head. "It's not important. The problem is fixed. I'm fine."  
  
He frowned. "Vicious is a bastard."  
  
"He wanted to be, but I'm smarter than he gives me credit for."  
  
"And that's saying something," Spike replied, still looking concerned. "But if you say so, I believe you."  
  
"I say so. And I should turn in. But I didn't want you worrying all night."  
  
"I won't," he said, sheepish again. "Come see me tomorrow. You know the address."  
  
She chuckled. "I will. Good night." She pressed the disconnect and lay back to stare at the ceiling, marveling that life could slide back to normal with as little effort as it had turned nightmarish. 


	9. Coda and Refrain

IX. Coda and Refrain  
  
Julia's face had barely faded from the LED when the comm. buzzed again, and Spike groaned. He was busy savoring the few moments of pleasant conversation with her, aware of the danger inherent in his rekindled attraction, but not yet ready to feel the guilt. He glared at Vicious' number blinking on the screen and pressed the answer key, making no attempt to hide his expression.  
  
"The Van wants to meet with us both," Vicious announced. "Good news."  
  
Spike flopped backward on the couch. "I'm in my sweats."  
  
It was a joke, but Vicious looked at the camera like he was staring into a vortex of insanity. "Get dressed, then!"  
  
"It's ten-thirty, Vicious. How can it be good news in the middle of the goddamned night?"  
  
"Perhaps you would like to talk to Mao," Vicious snarled.  
  
Spike sat up again, trying not to laugh. "No need to get out the hand grenades. I'm coming. Give me half an hour." He hung up the comm. before Vicious could respond.  
  
Stretching, he looked around his new room. Quarters were no tighter than at the old apartment, and it had windows on two sides, a story up off the sidewalk where looking out felt like floating just above the heads of the people walking below. The walls were a dove gray, the baseboards and windowsills white – Julia had painted it the second week she lived there, he remembered.  
  
He opened the closet and pulled out the only suit without a bullet hole, thinking to himself that he either had to stop getting shot, or find a cheaper tailor. When he'd dressed, he loaded the Jericho and pocketed it, and gave his hair a rough mussing as he passed the mirror on the top of the dresser.  
  
Annie looked up from her book when he swept through the kitchen. "Got a date?" she called hopefully after him.  
  
"Yeah. With a bunch of old men." He waved at her, digging in his coat pocket for his cigarettes. "Don't wait up for me!"  
  
He could see her laughing through the window as he headed down the sidewalk toward the tower.  
  
***  
  
Mao greeted Spike in the anteroom. "The session has begun," he said in a hushed voice. "Although they have not yet spoken of the matters pertaining to you and Vicious."  
  
Spike gave him a questioning look, but Mao just held out a hand to usher him into the auditorium. He didn't look worried, so Spike took the cue and walked in, trying to make as little noise as possible in his boots. Spotting Vicious' white head near the front of the assembled group, he made his way through the crowd until he could lean in and whisper in his partner's ear. "What's up?"  
  
Vicious didn't turn and gave a curt headshake. Spike jammed his hands in his pockets and rocked forward on his toes, listening to the last half of some impossibly long diatribe that made no sense without its beginning. He was about to go back out to find coffee when he heard a change in tone, and looked up to see Sou Long leaning forward.  
  
Sou surveyed the room and began, "Vicious has brought us an invitation from Ganymede to enter into a transportation agreement with a Red Eye manufacturer."  
  
Spike elbowed him and gave him a thumbs-up, but Vicious stared straight ahead, not even wasting energy on a disdainful look in return.  
  
"This agreement would allow us to put into action our plan to bring the White Tiger into our debt. We will be able to obtain and distribute so much more product, they will have only two choices: give up the trade to us altogether, or purchase from us in order to continue supplying their own customers."  
  
Murmurs of approval ran through the crowd. Sou moved back, yielding the discussion to Hung.  
  
Hung continued, "It is the Van's belief that we should extend an offer to the White Tiger for cooperation before we begin to saturate the marketplace. If one hopes to walk in front of one's enemy, one must be willing to agree to the rules of combat."  
  
Spike saw the tic in Vicious' cheek, and saw him fight to control it. Hung droned on.  
  
"Mao Yenrai has recommended that we establish teams of ambassadors" – Spike raised an eyebrow at the term and leaned forward – "to make contact with the landowners' property managers and the street-level White Tiger forces. We have adopted this suggestion. Also on his recommendation, we are assigning the leadership of these teams to Vicious, Spike Spiegel, and Mato Yenrai."  
  
Spike smirked inwardly; the old man had finally managed to get his son a commanding assignment. Mato had been his playmate as a child, but in comparison to him now, Spike seemed like a disciplined businessman. The boy had grown up thinking he would be handed his power, and so he had none to wield.  
  
"The three of you will remain to discuss your task. The meeting is adjourned." All three of the Longs sat back in shadow, and the cluster began to break up, people pairing off and talking, a few of them patting Spike on The Bad Shoulder or murmuring a word or two to Vicious as they departed. After a few minutes of polite chatter, the room emptied as if on cue, and the three young Red Dragons were left alone with Mao Yenrai and the Van.  
  
Mao spoke first. "I have sponsored you for this assignment because I believe the faces of this overture will be the faces of leadership in the decades to come. It is therefore fitting that you be familiar and respected."  
  
Ping Long moved forward. "This is not a call to arms. You have been the claw and breath of the Dragon, but now you must be its eye and its speaking mouth. The White Tiger will not lie down before you, but it will listen to the sense you speak. Do not taunt your foe, but neither turn your back when he is angry." He faded back out of the light and the four men stood waiting, but the Van had nothing else to say.  
  
Mao bowed first, the other three following suit, and they turned to leave the chamber.  
  
Outside the double doors, Mao said, "We will meet at my house tomorrow morning for breakfast to speak in more detail. The three of you will come alone." He shot a look at Vicious. "We will discuss the configuration of teams at that time, and not before."  
  
Vicious did not acknowledge the directness of the comment, but all three bowed again and Mao regained a little of his jovial demeanor. "Go out and celebrate," he suggested. "We'll eat at ten."  
  
He turned down the hallway toward his office.  
  
Mato hesitated a moment, and then mumbled an apology and followed his father. Spike and Vicious traded a knowing look and turned to leave, crossing the anteroom in long strides, coats flowing behind them.  
  
No discussion was required; they headed for the Hangman. As soon as they were through the sliding doors of the tower, Spike burst out, "What the hell was that bullshit about agreeing to rules of combat and not ... what did he say? ... 'taunting' our foe?"  
  
"Art of War," Vicious replied sullenly.  
  
Spike rolled his eyes. "What about if our foe throws a punch at us? Can we shoot him then?"  
  
Vicious' mouth was a tight line and he gave no answer. They swept through the door of the bar, ignoring the waves and hellos from the bartender and waitresses, making a beeline for the back table. Only after the waitress had brought them a bottle of sake and a complimentary sailboat of sushi did he speak.  
  
"Mao did this on purpose. He's sending us out to play at politics because he knows neither of us believes in this foolhardy idea."  
  
"I'm a little surprised it bothers you so much," Spike said around a mouthful of Ganymede unagi. "I mean, this is the way to shut down the White Tiger, right?"  
  
Vicious shook his head. "At best, it amounts to keeping a dangerous predator as a pet. At worst, it means the Van are moving toward a compromise with the Tigers. We have the stronger forces, the better businesses, larger coffers. Why should we offer a laurel of peace to an enemy we could simply defeat?"  
  
Spike nodded, conceding the difference. He picked up a piece of Maki roll and examined it. "So what do you suppose we do? Walk around downtown shaking hands with every White Tiger we see and pitching our little business plan?"  
  
"Apparently." Vicious selected a slab of Sea Rat sashimi and bathed it in soy and wasabe. "I think it's idiotic. I say we go straight to the distributors and let them break the news."  
  
Comprehension spread across Spike's face and he jabbed his chopsticks in the air for emphasis as he exclaimed, "That's why Mato's the third!"  
  
Vicious frowned at him, not understanding.  
  
"Mato would never go along with it if we decided to go straight to the dealers. And if he didn't go along with it, and went to the White Tigers, we'd end up getting killed. You're right, Mao did this on purpose."  
  
Vicious chewed and swallowed before he replied. "At least he gave us enough credit to think we would figure it out before we started."  
  
"Hey. Technically, I figured it out." Spike grinned.  
  
A small smile cracked through Vicious' dour expression. "You saved up your one intelligent thought for the week until Friday."  
  
"Don't start with me," Spike warned, but he fought to control a laugh. "I'm already mad at you. You made me get all dressed up and come out when I was ready to go to sleep."  
  
"Oh, you had to come all the way down the elevator. I have no sympathy for you."  
  
"No!" Spike shot back. "I had to walk! From my apartment!"  
  
Vicious narrowed his eyes. "You did not walk from your apartment in fifteen minutes."  
  
"I did too." Spike's eyes positively glittered, and Vicious glared.  
  
"I give up."  
  
"Moved into Julia's old room at Annie's." Spike finished off his sake and waved to the waitress.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry, you had to come four blocks." Vicious shook his head. "How did you get your suit?"  
  
"I climbed out the window up to the roof at Rina's after she locked me in."  
  
Vicious fought it, but finally laughed, and as Spike joined in the waitress came with another bottle. "You two are in a good mood tonight," she said as she waited for a tip.  
  
"No, not really," Vicious replied, "but we find our foul mood amusing." She frowned and turned on her heel, stalking off with the twenty-Woolong bill Spike handed her.  
  
"Why do you always do that?" Spike moaned.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Scare off the pretty waitresses." He slouched in his chair. "I can never get a phone number when I'm out with you."  
  
Vicious rolled his eyes. "I haven't seen you try to get a phone number in years."  
  
"Well, now you know why."  
  
Their banter continued, bottles of sake coming and going, until the bartender announced last call and came over to see them.  
  
"I was worried when I had not seen either of you in so long," he said with a bow. "I am glad you have returned."  
  
The two men, the two claws of the Dragon, exchanged a look that echoed his sentiment and rose to go.  
  
***  
  
Back in his sweatpants and shirtless, Spike lay in bed, spinning a little from the alcohol. The buzz came from the mood of the evening, as well. It had been months since he and Vicious had had a simple, friendly conversation, and longer than that since they'd verbally sparred so easily. Whatever had happened on Ganymede would have been fun to watch, he thought as he dropped a foot to the floor to stop the ceiling's rotation. He had Vicious and Julia both back... and what little guilt he felt for including Julia in the reasons for his happiness meant nothing in comparison to the deep sleep it brought him.  
  
***  
  
Julia woke with a start at the sound of the door opening. She heard footsteps, none too stealthy, and pieced together the sound of Vicious sweeping off his coat and setting his katana down against the doorjamb. She lay back down as he came through the bedroom door and spoke.  
  
"Julia."  
  
She rolled over onto her side. "Mm?"  
  
"Can I stay?"  
  
"You know you can." She extended a hand to him, and he came to the side of the bed to take it. "What happened?" she asked sleepily.  
  
"I'll tell you about it in the morning. I have a breakfast meeting. But I wanted to be with you." He knelt and kissed her. "Go back to sleep."  
  
She heard him undress and smiled as his weight sunk the mattress beside her. She slid over next to him, laying her head in the crook of his shoulder and pressing her face against his broad chest, and he pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head as he dragged his fingernails lightly over her back. When he felt her smile against his bare skin, he whispered, "I take it back. Don't go back to sleep yet." 


	10. Found Money, Stolen Time

X. Found Money, Stolen Time  
  
Vicious arrived early at Mao Yenrai's home the following morning and waited respectfully at the front gate; Mao watched through the window as Spike strolled up, crushed out a cigarette on the sidewalk, and shook hands with his partner.  
  
Mao nodded to himself. A falling-out between Spike and Vicious would have been disastrous at this point, though he had a feeling neither young man knew it. The older he got, the more he believed the Van were right to stay so firmly grounded in tradition and balance. Spike and Vicious were like two matched weights on a fulcrum, each bringing strength to the partnership with qualities the other lacked. Remove one from the equation, and the other would lose his leverage. Perhaps it had been unwise to separate them as leaders for this assignment, but in his heart Mao knew the real imbalance in that situation was his own son, Mato. His inclusion was a necessary risk, intended to ensure at least one of the street teams was under the direct control of Mao and the Van at all times.  
  
It was Mato who opened the door for Vicious and Spike. Mao could hear their low voices, but not the conversation, before the three of them entered the sunroom and crossed to the table, waiting beside their chairs for the eldest man to take his place at the head.  
  
Seeing them around his board, their faces turned to him waiting for his opening remarks, Mao could not help thinking of them all as his sons. Mato was his joy; he took full responsibility for the boy's shortcomings and swelled with pride at his successes. Spike was the image of his father come alive again, proof that personality could be carried in the genes along with the physical form. And Vicious, who had come to him as a teenager with a hundred years' history in his eyes, shone the brightest – as a result of being the most volatile element.  
  
Mao poured tea and sat back in his chair, smiling. "It is a pleasure to have you all in my home. Some men in my position would feel fear, seeing the future vessels of their power assembled like this. But I feel relief, because I do not fear my own demise, so long as you are strong."  
  
Tacit understanding among the younger men made it Vicious' place to respond first. "It is an honor to be invited," he replied. "I am in good company."  
  
Spike knew how to behave in the formal society of the Syndicate, though he'd never admit it outside of a private meeting such as this one. He followed Vicious' remark, after a few seconds of polite silence, with his own greeting. "I have eaten in this sunroom at least once a year, every year of my life. And I'm grateful, every time, that you're still here, Mao."  
  
"I've eaten in this sunroom every day of my life," Mato came back, taking the bait, "And look forward to doing the same again tomorrow." That drew a blistering look from his father, but Spike and Vicious laughed with him, and Mao finally joined in.  
  
"I'll get right to the first item on the agenda," he said when the laughter had died down. "While you were on Ganymede, Vicious, we were contacted by the ISSP Counter-Terrorism director Sean Harrity. As we have all known for some time, the violent clashes between rival syndicates here on Mars take their toll outside our own ranks. There is legislation in place to increase the staffing for the ISSP's anti-Syndicate task forces, and to create a fund from which ISSP officers would be paid exorbitant bounties in exchange for naming police force members who continue to compromise with the Syndicates."  
  
Vicious scoffed. "We hear the same threat every session."  
  
"True," Mao conceded, "But this is the first time we have heard the threat publicly supported by the average citizen. And the citizens are not complaining about gambling, or even drugs. They are complaining about the bloodshed in the streets. Obviously, Harrity is no more interested in seeing this legislation pass than we are. So he has offered us a chance to improve our business position in exchange for making the proposed law seem unnecessary."  
  
"I don't get it," Spike said mildly. "It sounds like they're asking us to 'be nice'."  
  
"They are asking you to stop shooting up bars and train stops. They are offering a blind eye to our transports carrying the shipments from Ganymede, so long as the economic chokehold results in a quieter day-to-day street life. Harrity has contacted the White Tiger leaders as well. It will be up to the three of you to communicate and support the coming changes among the lower ranks, as it will be your responsibility to enforce our negotiated agreements with the White Tiger. You will each have a team of fighters. Your presence should be seen but not felt, unless you respond to a direct attack. I do not necessarily agree with the Van that you are not to be viewed as force. I would have chosen better diplomats if that were the case." He let the words sink in before going on. "I have assigned each of you a charge of twenty people. From your charges, you will choose a second in command of your group." He passed around scrolls, filled with names, to each of them. "Vicious, although I have assigned Julia to work with you, knowing it is most comfortable for you and probably for her, I would object to her selection as your designee."  
  
Vicious raised an eyebrow. "I thought we had agreed that Julia was not a liability."  
  
Spike looked back and forth between his partner and his mentor, wondering what the details of that conversation might have been.  
  
Mao inclined his head, his expression unreadable. "My advice has nothing to do with Julia as a liability. Accept that I have thought through my reasons."  
  
Spike did his best to derail the subject before it boiled over. "Wait. Are you saying there has already been an agreement made with the White Tiger leadership?"  
  
"The overture has been made. But we believe if pressure comes from the bottom – in the form of your visibility and your clear goal to enforce the agreement – the time of transition will be shortened."  
  
"So we aren't ambassadors, really. We're still the enforcers, but we have to shake hands before we start shooting?"  
  
"You are ambassadors with persuasive firepower," Mao replied.  
  
"That wasn't what was said at the Van," Mato cut in. "Not that I am questioning your direction, Father."  
  
Mao gave him a sharp look. "Perhaps you were not listening well, Mato," he replied. "The instruction from the Van was to behave as businessmen, to speak before using your strength."  
  
Mato sat back in his chair and made no further contribution. The uncomfortable lull in the conversation was interrupted by Mao's kitchen staff, who swept in with plates of fruit and coffee service, and while the staff bustled, the Dragons ate without speaking. After the door to the sunroom had closed again, Mao went on.  
  
"My personal request to all of you is that you keep your eyes open for deviation. This would mean buyers who do not contact you on their expected schedule, as well as new buyers who traditionally deal with the Tigers but come to us directly now. Part of our concession to the White Tiger leadership was that we would not attempt to undercut their channels of distribution."  
  
Vicious broke in, "Why concede anything? We have the upper hand. We can simply squeeze them out." He did not drop his gaze as Mao stared at him.  
  
"Despite the consistency of your personal goals, Vicious, they are still inconsistent with the will of the Van. We are under order to reduce the visible fighting between the clans. What you suggest would accomplish precisely the opposite, and would undercut our ability to become the sole supplier of Red Eye on Mars."  
  
Vicious continued to stare, but Mao looked away dismissively and turned to Spike, who had been reading his list. "Spike? You have said little, but what you have said suggests you are looking for a way to continue the rivalry as well."  
  
He shook his head. "No, not exactly. I just want to make sure no one expects me to roll over in the name of being a diplomat."  
  
Mao chuckled. "If that were a requirement, I would not have brought your name to the Van. You even less than your partner."  
  
Spike and Vicious exchanged a look.  
  
"I will expect your designation of seconds tomorrow morning," Mao said as he folded his linen napkin beside his plate. "On Monday, you will begin your formal assignment. We have nothing else for the three of you to attend to this weekend. Use discretion during these two days."  
  
He rose, and the young men followed suit.  
  
***  
  
Spike punched in his ID code at the cash kiosk and whistled appreciatively at the balance displayed on the screen. He didn't know how other people got their money, but ever since his father's death, his had just appeared at regular intervals in his bank account. He collected a "salary" from the Red Dragon at the beginning of each month in addition to the pension payout, but that wasn't due for another two weeks. He withdrew a few thousand Woolongs in cash and pocketed the card, after making sure it showed the same balance as the kiosk.  
  
He paused mid-stride to light a cigarette, thinking idly that the money might have come from this new assignment: a raise, or a bonus. Considering he spent frugally – not out of discipline, but because he had always had money and so never developed a taste for blowing through it – the fact that his account balance had nearly doubled was quite an increase. He did the math in his head, and realized it amounted to nearly a year's salary. The problem with having a trust fund, a pension, and a salary from the Syndicate was that he couldn't just walk into a bank branch and ask them for a statement – he was a glitch in the system.  
  
He found himself back at Annie's, and smiled when he realized he wasn't just at a familiar stopping place, he was at the end of his journey. The sign out front had been turned to "Open", and he pushed through the door, grinning. "Annie! I'm ho-ooome!"  
  
As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he saw two faces at the counter. His right eye saw Annie and Julia, though his left saw only shadows; he squinted and crossed the room.  
  
"Hey, Spike," Julia greeted him, and he felt himself flush. "I came to see you and you weren't here."  
  
"I had breakfast with Mao. I'm sorry, I didn't think to call you about it."  
  
She nodded. "I figured as much, since I knew Vicious went. He was pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing. It's been nice to catch up with Annie, though."  
  
"Don't tell me you're going already," Spike replied. "I have to shop today. I could use a feminine opinion."  
  
She laughed out loud. "I'm not sure my opinion and a feminine opinion would be the same thing... and I'm meeting Vicious for lunch."  
  
"I was going to go to the International District and wander," he said, hoping it sounded as interesting to her as the thought of her coming along sounded to him.  
  
She gave him a sideways look. "I'll comm. you after lunch, if you can wait that long," she said, and he noticed she made no offer for him to attend the meal.  
  
"Sure. I'll just bug Annie until I hear from you," he smiled back.  
  
Annie groaned. "Julia, don't forget to call him."  
  
Julia stood to leave, squeezing Spike's arm as she passed him but not meeting his eyes. "See you later," she called over her shoulder, and went out into the bright sun.  
  
When the bells on the door had gone quiet, Annie poured herself a cup of coffee, laced it with a splash of bourbon, and pinned Spike with a stare. "What was that?"  
  
He shook his head. "What was what?"  
  
"That. With Julia."  
  
"I don't know what you mean. Did she say something to you before I got here?"  
  
She downed most of the coffee before she replied. "No, but she came here to see you. And since when do you invite Julia along on your shopping expeditions?"  
  
Spike stared back at Annie. "I've known her for years. She's my friend. And she has great taste."  
  
"When was the last time you went anywhere alone with her?"  
  
He opened his mouth to say he'd been to her apartment a few days earlier, but closed it again when Annie's point became clear. Blushing a little, he replied, "I'm not up to anything. I just ... look, she and Vicious had a fight, which is behind them now, and Vicious and I had a fight, which is behind us now, and I'm craving familiar faces. Yours included."  
  
Annie narrowed her eyes. "Don't start with the flattery, Spike."  
  
"I'm not, I swear. Hey, what do I owe you for rent?"  
  
"Good lord, you are incorrigible. Offer me flattery, and when I turn that down, offer me money." He could see the dimples in her cheeks even though she tried to hide her smile. "Thirty thousand a month."  
  
"Come on," he said, and could tell she was about to reach across the counter and slap him, so he rushed on. "I paid Archer more than that to stitch my shoulder. Don't sell yourself short. I can cover more, easily."  
  
She sized the young man up, trying to figure out if he was playing at something, but he looked utterly sincere. "No, Spike, thirty a month is fine. Whatever else you should be paying, you'll make up by working the counter or running deliveries."  
  
He looked down. "After the meetings last night and this morning, I don't know how much time I'm going to have."  
  
"Whatever time you have will be enough. We're done with this subject," she said, and finally gave him a smile.  
  
He smiled back and pulled out his card. "Why don't you take a year off of that, just in case I'm not around on the first of the month sometime."  
  
Her eyes widened. "You're sitting on" – she did the math in her head – "almost four hundred thousand Woolongs?"  
  
He put his finger to his lips. "I don't know where some of it came from, so I figured I'd better spend it before it disappeared again." He didn't tell her he was really sitting on a few million; that would have opened up a much bigger can of worms.  
  
Annie was familiar with the strange cycles of Syndicate banking, since her shop ran on the same system. "What if it's not yours, Spike?"  
  
He nodded. "I thought about that." Laundering money through personal accounts happened every once in a while, though some warning was usually provided. "But no one's ever used my account as a washing machine before, and I just got a new assignment, and I can't very well go down to the Financial District and ask some guy in a suit to walk me through the last dozen transactions. Go on, make the transfer, so I know how much I have left to take shopping."  
  
She hesitated before taking his card. "I'll take six months," she said, "And I want you to be careful."  
  
He gave her a puzzled look.  
  
"With your money. With yourself. And with Julia." She handed his card back after the transaction was complete. "For your first assignment, you can watch the counter while I go out and have somebody else make me a sandwich for lunch."  
  
"Sure," he said, and settled into her customary seat with a magazine from the 18-up rack while she put on her coat.  
  
"You want anything?"  
  
He shook his head and smiled. "Nah. I'll eat when I go out."  
  
"Be good," she told him with a wink.  
  
***  
  
He'd had a nap, made a list of what he needed, and just about given up on Julia calling back when his comm. buzzed and flashed her number. "Hey!" he greeted her, feeling a little euphoric.  
  
"Hey yourself. Have you run your errands yet?"  
  
"Nope. I was just about to leave. Are you going to help?"  
  
"I don't have any idea what I can do to help you," she said with a laugh, "but a day out sounds like a good plan."  
  
"I'm not beyond help. Should I pick you up?"  
  
"Why don't I come get you?" she replied. "Easier to park a car than a Mono- racer in the I-D."  
  
He beamed. "I'll be ready."  
  
When she hung up, he looked around the room, searching for something to do with the time until she arrived. He had barely finished alphabetizing his books by author when he heard the purr of her convertible outside the open window, followed by the jingle of the shop bell. A knock on his door soon followed, and he called out "Come in," as he stowed the finally-empty suitcase under the bed and pulled on his sherpa jacket.  
  
She opened the door and poked her head inside. "You haven't painted over it yet, I see?"  
  
"Why would I do that?"  
  
She shrugged. "I figured you'd do something to make it yours."  
  
"I like that you used to live here," he replied, before he'd really thought about it. "Uh. You did a nice job decorating, I mean," he tacked on, but they both understood what he'd said.  
  
She cocked her head to the side, almost smiling, and came inside, hesitating before leaving the door open. "What's on your list that I need to help you with, exactly?"  
  
"I'm down to one suit," he said, "and I'm feeling a little weird about Annie's Victorian bedroom furniture. Wanted to pick out something a little more..."  
  
"Manly?" she supplied.  
  
"Me," he countered. "Though the paint job will stay."  
  
"So I'm going clothes-and-furniture shopping with you?"  
  
"If you don't mind." He waited, wondering if he'd overstepped some boundary.  
  
She laughed. "It's more than a little surreal, Spike, but I'll try anything once."  
  
"Excellent. Let's go."  
  
As they wound through the city toward the northwest corner, where the International District sprawled back from the bay to the foothills, he let the wind blow through his hair and made up ground rules for the day. Annie had pegged him from the second he walked in the shop that morning, and that meant he had to curb whatever he was telegraphing about his enthusiasm for Julia's company – most of all, when she was around. The difference between fantasy and reality was painfully obvious. Whatever had transpired between her and Vicious – and he intended to find out what that was, today – they were clearly back on solid footing, and he'd served his purpose as a friend and confidant. He'd take whatever extra time of hers he could get, and had no desire to endanger the opportunity by being too forward. The idea of actually approaching her in any romantic way still seemed horribly wrong; wrong to betray his partner, wrong to ask her to do the same. But unlike Julia, he hadn't resolved anything with Vicious about his strange behavior – and it needled at him while they drove.  
  
They walked the open-air market, looking for the row of clothiers and tailors in the Italian section. Spike stopped to teach a street performer how to make a cigarette vanish and reappear with one hand in his pocket, and Julia watched with a close eye, impressing him when she pulled it off as they continued down the street. "You're probably good at making things disappear," he teased.  
  
She raised her eyebrows. "I've been known to do it. Though I like being able to pay for what I buy these days."  
  
"Julia," he began, trying to figure out how best to broach the subject, "I don't want this to sound like something it isn't. But I want to know that you're really all right with Vicious. I don't need to know the details. I just would hate to think felt like you didn't have any options."  
  
She looked around at the booths and the pedestrians as she replied, "What options do I have, exactly?"  
  
He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. "Breaking it off with Vicious – if you wanted to – wouldn't necessarily mean breaking off your life here in Tharsis City. You would have the support of Mao. It counts for a lot."  
  
She looked at him with mild concern. "How do you know I have Mao's support?"  
  
He bit his lip. "He as much as said so this morning. And he directed Vicious not to put you in the line of fire for this little mission we're all about to take on. I assume Vicious told you all about it."  
  
She nodded. "He told me about it. Told me he'd assigned Marcus Britt as his second in command. I figured he was the one pigeonholing me into sitting around in my apartment most of the time."  
  
"Well, that would be him. All Mao told him was that he shouldn't assign you the secondary command, although he said in the same breath that he thought you could handle it."  
  
"Spike, what did you tell him? He wouldn't give that direction unless he knew something about what happened over the past few days." She put on her sunglasses so he couldn't see her eyes, and her face was impossible to read.  
  
Sighing, he relented. "I told him what Vicious had offered you, and what he asked me to do about it. I told him I didn't want to see it carried out by someone else. He assured me there would not be a next time."  
  
She went pale. "Vicious will be able to figure out that he knows," she said, more to herself than to Spike.  
  
"I doubt it," he said, stopping her with a hand on her arm. She turned to face him, and he looked into his reflection in her shades. "Mao had to know. And he's smart enough to know how to keep his knowledge hidden. I wasn't about to let Vicious jerk you around that way. He doesn't have the authority to make an offer to leave; you know that. And he didn't have the authority to send me after you."  
  
"He said he knew you wouldn't do it."  
  
Spike shook his head. "I guess I'm more transparent than I thought."  
  
"You are," she said, but her tone was gentle. "I won't forget the last few days – your actions, or Vicious'. But I really am fine. I can handle him, and I can handle myself."  
  
"I never doubted that," he said with a wry grin. "I just get the feeling the trip to Ganymede must have been a real roller-coaster ride."  
  
She surprised him by putting her arms around him, and he returned the embrace cautiously, willing his body to behave. "I don't want to talk about it, Spike," she said against his shoulder, "but I know if I ever do, I can talk to you." She stepped back, looking a little sheepish, and they stood quiet for a moment, neither sure of what to say.  
  
He pointed across the street. "There. Italian suits. Item number one."  
  
By the time he'd picked out four suits, a half-dozen shirts, and a new trenchcoat, the discomfort of the earlier conversation had faded. He was about to pay when Julia stopped him, pointing to a suit in the window. Two- toned blue, double-breasted, with rectangular patches over the clasps, it looked like a musician's ensemble more than the attire of a businessman. "That," she declared, "is a Spike suit."  
  
He raised his eyebrows. "You think so?" He motioned to the tailor and asked if he had one to try on. The tailor looked him up and down, and then replied, "It's far too short for you, but I could make you one."  
  
"Do it," Julia cut in. "With a yellow shirt and a black tie."  
  
"You have excellent taste, ma'am. He is lucky to have you."  
  
Spike laughed. "She does have excellent taste. And I'm the unluckiest guy I know, but at least she'll shop with me."  
  
He didn't dare look at her, and she was relieved that he did not see the shadow of regret cross her face before she pushed it from her mind. 


	11. The New Guard

A/N: As Brigidforest commented after the last chapter: So close, and yet, so far.  
  
I mean, we all know where this ends up, right?  
  
It's my job to tell you how it gets there, and we've only scratched the surface of that tale. In other words, we aren't even up to the eyecatch and the commercial break yet.  
  
I promise not to bore you if you promise to stick with me... 'Cause as far as I'm concerned, this is the fun part. Thanks, as always, for reading.  
  
***  
  
XI. The New Guard  
  
The last of the red Martian sunset faded to gray as Spike waved farewell to Julia. He couldn't get past Annie on the way back to his room – even though he came in through the kitchen entrance, she called his name in a tone that brooked no refusal. He opened the storeroom door, and she turned on her stool to look him up and down.  
  
"What've you got there?" She eyed the hangers he held over his shoulder.  
  
"New suits. Got shot through all the other ones."  
  
She frowned at him. "You should stop that."  
  
"Well, according to the Van, I'll have more need of nice clothes than ammunition."  
  
"I heard about that from Mao this afternoon," she replied. "He promoted you. That's wonderful."  
  
Spike stopped to think. "I hadn't considered it that way, but I guess you're right."  
  
"You hadn't considered it that way? Spike, come down to the planet with the rest of us. You're commanding a team beside Vicious, directly under Mao. You've leapfrogged a half-dozen older men, you and Vicious both."  
  
He smirked. "Always knew it would happen. It's in my blood."  
  
"Spike." Her tone was grave, and it gave him pause. "There are a lot of things in your blood. Remember them, so you don't have to live through them all yourself."  
  
"Annie, you worry too much," he said lightly. "This is the new Syndicate. We sit around and make deals and drink tea."  
  
She didn't reply.  
  
"And it's going to bore me insane," he added, turning to go.  
  
"Is that why you're inventing more trouble for yourself?"  
  
He stopped. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Vicious came looking for you and Julia about an hour ago. You should call him."  
  
He faced her, and she saw the shadow of worry cross his features. "What did he say?"  
  
"You know Vicious. He never says what he really means. He just asked if you two had come back, and when you left."  
  
Nodding, he turned again. "I'll talk to him."  
  
He hung the new suits and shirts in the closet, admiring them not only for their quality, but because Julia approved. He was eager to get the fifth one, to wear it when he saw her. He felt an almost adolescent thrill that she'd know he did it for her, tempered immediately by the thought of calling Vicious. No use stalling, he thought. Get it over with.  
  
When Vicious answered, Spike could see he was at Julia's apartment. He offered only a curt "Hello?" Spike took a deep breath and said, "Annie said you came looking for me."  
  
The gray eyes narrowed. "I wanted to talk to you about our selections for tomorrow morning."  
  
Spike was about to say he agreed with Britt as a choice, but thought better of letting on that he and Julia had discussed it at all. "I'm meeting Lin tonight," he finally said. "He's a good marksman and cool-headed. Plus, he's got that air of aristocrat that's usually your shtick."  
  
Vicious didn't react. "I've chosen Marcus Britt; I spoke to him this afternoon. I believe we should all meet before we make our announcements tomorrow morning, to make sure everyone is prepared to work together."  
  
"Have you talked to Mato?"  
  
"No. I thought you could."  
  
"Why me?" Spike asked, but he knew.  
  
"Mao will be less suspicious if the invitation comes from you."  
  
Spike cocked an eyebrow at the camera. "What would he have to be suspicious of?"  
  
"Haven't you heard anything he has said in the past few days? He leaves decisions to you without direction, but he gives me orders as if I were the most junior of all of us." The bitterness was evident in his voice.  
  
"You don't think that has anything to do with you constantly wanting to do an end-run around the Van's orders?"  
  
Vicious shook his head. "No, I do not."  
  
At that moment, Spike longed for a cheaper comm., one without a camera. He did his best to keep the cold in the pit of his stomach from showing on his face. If Vicious knew he'd spoken to Mao about Julia, he would see it as betrayal, and Spike couldn't help either the guilt or the dread that welled up at the thought. "You challenged him this morning," he finally said.  
  
"He seems to think my judgment is clouded. Why would my having a different opinion than the Van make him think I would be a liability?"  
  
"Do you hear yourself?" Spike asked, glad to still be on the subject of politics. "You can't disagree with the Van and be loyal. They're mutually exclusive."  
  
"Disobeying the Van would be disloyal. But I did not rise to my position by having no opinion, or by keeping it to myself," Vicious shot back. "Something has given Mao the impression he needs to keep tabs on me."  
  
Spike frowned. "We just got a promotion," he began cautiously, trying to think a few sentences ahead. "That hardly suggests he questions either of our judgment. In fact, I'd say he just wants to be sure you aren't going to take the added power and run with it."  
  
"And we both know you side with him on that point."  
  
"We both know that's only half true." With a sigh, Spike tried to head off the fight that was brewing. "I don't like this assignment any more than you do. I don't like being a drug dealer. I'd rather be kicking the asses of street thugs who step out of line than helping them spread filth."  
  
"This is a late hour for you to grow a social conscience," Vicious replied, but the jab seemed half-hearted.  
  
"It's nothing new, damn it. Why do you think I let you handle the buying and selling? My job has always been to protect you and the rest of our people."  
  
Vicious nodded. "Well, now our job is to enforce the agreement. Are you saying you do not want the assignment?"  
  
Spike groaned, leaning back on the couch. "Did those words come out of my mouth?"  
  
"No," Vicious replied, "But if you are thinking them, perhaps you should say them."  
  
"Don't take your problems with Mao out on me," Spike snapped. "I'll talk to Lin and Mato and get back to you with a time to meet."  
  
"I'll be waiting." Vicious seemed about to say something else, but shook his head and disconnected.  
  
***  
  
Vicious could feel Julia watching him throughout the conversation, and although he didn't mind her being privy, he hoped she wouldn't ask about it. He had so far been unable to put his suspicion to rest - that Mao knew about the night at Henshai's, and what followed after the battle. What Spike said made more sense than he wanted to admit, but the feeling that everyone knew what he was thinking simply would not go away.  
  
Worst of all, he didn't know which of his closest confidants might have broached the subject. Spike was closer to Mao, but Julia seemed more likely to seek his counsel, especially after she'd drawn the real purpose of Spike's visit out during the flight home from Ganymede. He cursed himself again for letting anger at Spike get the better of his instincts. Now he'd have to try and draw information out of Julia, and he knew it would not be simple.  
  
He decided on an indirect approach, and smiled up at her as she came back from the kitchen. "Mao sends his regards. I told him about your skillful handling of Manfred. He was most impressed."  
  
She sat beside him and nodded, but took the opening far from the direction he'd intended. "Really? Did you tell him I outwitted you as well as Manfred?"  
  
"I... did not tell him that I expected you would go through with what Manfred was promised."  
  
"Or that you promised it to him, I suppose?" Her tone was conversational, but Vicious found himself in the distasteful position of being the one interrogated all the same.  
  
"I thought we had resolved this," he countered.  
  
"To my satisfaction, yes. But if he's figured out that you set the mission up as you did, and that I had to find my own way to accomplish it, that might explain a few things."  
  
Vicious willed himself to match her calm. "Have you spoken to him?"  
  
"Not in a week. This is the first I've heard he knew the details. I have no desire to talk to anyone about it, myself." She took his hand. "You included. Look, I'm sure Spike is right. Mao just wants to be sure you're going to do what he's asking, since he recommended you."  
  
"Why would anyone think my actions would reflect poorly on Mao or anyone else in the Syndicate?" He glowered at her, but she just shook her head.  
  
"I think Spike and I both have good reason to keep an eye on you, but perhaps the fact that you've done plenty without the Van's permission lately is making you feel more eyes on you than there really are."  
  
Her words cut to the quick of his fears, and he lashed back. "Did you enjoy your outing with Spike today?" He didn't hide his dark expression as well as he intended, and Julia gave him a hard look in return.  
  
"Yes, I did. Mostly because we didn't discuss any of this. It's not like I have a gaggle of girlfriends to pal around with. I had fun going shopping like a normal person, for once."  
  
"We are not normal people, Julia." Vicious let go of her hand and stood. "The sooner you stop playing at it, the easier it will be for you to accept."  
  
She folded her arms across her chest. "If you're going to order me around, you'd better have an assignment for me. Otherwise, what I do with my time is my choice."  
  
"Don't be a child," he snapped as he collected his coat.  
  
"Don't treat me like one," she retorted.  
  
He gave her a scathing look, hand on the doorknob, and opened his mouth twice before settling on saying, "I have business to attend to," and storming out.  
  
***  
  
Spike put his boots up on the glass coffee table and settled back in his armchair. "Go on," he told Mato, "Make yourself comfortable. They didn't give me an office, so I took this one."  
  
Mato laughed longer and louder than was necessary. He, Spike, Lin and Lao waited in the dim light of the Syndicate library for Vicious and Marcus to arrive. Spike barely knew Lao; he was the son of Sou Long and ten years older than the rest of them. He suspected Mato had received even more guidance than Vicious when it came to the selection of his second.  
  
Lin watched the group from an ottoman close to the fireplace, his body relaxed and his expression blank. Like Spike, he was a trained fighter and a third-generation Red Dragon, and they'd talked about their roles and intentions before anyone else arrived. He stood when the door opened and Vicious came through, followed by Marcus.  
  
"Lao!" Vicious bowed and shook his hand; Spike admired the restraint he showed, since he'd expected a bit of an explosion when Mato's partner was revealed to be another son of the senior leadership.  
  
With pleasantries out of the way, Lao turned to Spike. "For what purpose have we gathered this evening?"  
  
Spike waved a hand at Vicious. "The guy who wanted the meeting can answer that."  
  
Vicious shot him a sideways glare and then pointedly ignored him throughout the rest of his speech. "I wanted all of us to meet, to be certain we all understand what we are expected to do, to ensure we are all comfortable with our positions, and to prevent any surprises amongst ourselves tomorrow morning when we meet with the Van.  
  
"I feel certain all of us have misgivings about this assignment, whether they be concerns about the configuration of the group, or the nature of the agreement between the Red Dragon and White Tiger, or the involvement of the ISSP in the affairs of the Syndicates. We must all function as a unit, regardless of those misgivings. You must begin with the core of your loyalty to the Red Dragon, and build your actions upon it."  
  
Lao held up a hand. "You sound as though you are trying the hardest to convince yourself, Vicious."  
  
Spike looked from one man to the other, knowing that Lao's family name and age were the only things keeping him from the sharp end of a katana. He was surprised when Vicious gave a single nod and responded.  
  
"I have made no secret of my desire to shut down the White Tiger, and this course of action will prolong its life. All the same, if we must lessen the violence in order to ensure we can strengthen our business holdings, I understand the validity of the assignment."  
  
Spike switched his crossed legs to keep his knees from going numb. "Looking around here, I think it's obvious Mato and Lao will be the 'speaking mouth' most often," he interjected. "Vicious and I, as well as our seconds, are better suited for keeping the peace, if you know what I mean."  
  
Marcus spoke for the first time that evening. "This sounds like a whole lot of down time."  
  
"Provided both Syndicates stick to the plan, it will be," Lao replied. "The job we all have, I believe, is to keep our eyes and ears open and make certain the White Tiger does not attempt to form alliances with landowners or other factions who previously felt no loyalty to any side."  
  
Spike looked over at Lin, who was staring out the window. He tried to stifle a smile, and then a yawn, while all six men sat in silence.  
  
"Hey," Spike offered, "Let's make this quick. Anybody want out?"  
  
Glances were exchanged, but no one moved or spoke.  
  
"Good. Anybody have a problem with anybody here?"  
  
"I..." Mato stood, and they all rounded on him. "I just want to say that I am in the best company of any assignment I've ... had."  
  
Spike laughed, thinking it was the only assignment he'd ever 'had', but knowing better than to say it. "The last thing I want to know is, did anybody get a raise for taking this bullshit project on?"  
  
They all looked at him, then around at each other – but no one seemed to know what he meant. He raised his eyebrows and sighed. "Well, I just wanted to make sure I didn't get the short end of the stick."  
  
Vicious stood. "We will convene with the Van at eleven tomorrow morning. If they have more specific instructions for us, we will receive them then. Thank you for coming."  
  
***  
  
Spike trudged down the sidewalk, taking a detour around the building before he headed back to Annie's to allow the other men time to disperse. He still clung to the last vestiges of his pleasant afternoon with Julia, and after the meeting, he feared any more conversation with Syndicate men about Syndicate business would erase that altogether.  
  
Lost in thought, and assuming he'd distanced himself from the others, he jumped when a voice called out, "Mr. Spiegel!" He had his Jericho out and had dropped to a crouch without thinking, looking around with the sight of the pistol as his guide until he spotted a figure in an overcoat and hat standing on the other side of a chain link fence. He couldn't remember what the locked lot was, and rose cautiously, weapon still aimed, as he crossed the alley.  
  
"Nobody calls me 'mister'," Spike replied as he sidestepped, relaxing only when he had his back against the brick wall of the building where the fence attached.  
  
The man in the overcoat spoke clearly, but did not turn. "I do not know you well enough to simply call you 'Spike'. But I have recently completed half of a business transaction with you."  
  
Spike raised an eyebrow warily. "The financial half, I assume?"  
  
The hat nodded. "An advance payment. A token of our appreciation, for your willingness to overlook a greater quantity of Red Eye in circulation than the Red Dragon has seen fit to make available."  
  
"How did you get into my bank account?" Spike moved closer to the man, hands back in his jacket pockets with the Jericho's safety off and the trigger half-depressed.  
  
"I did not. A Red Dragon arranged the transfer for me."  
  
"Bullshit." Spike turned, trying to see the man's face, but the hat cast a sharp shadow over it in the harsh streetlight.  
  
"An irrational response. You have the additional funds, do you not? How else would you have gotten it?"  
  
"Well, it was a waste of your money," Spike replied. "I had plenty of it before you gambled on me."  
  
"You do not understand. You may face serious repercussions at the hands of your own family members if you do not complete your half of the transaction."  
  
Spike pushed off of the fence, noting the man tensed at the movement but still did not turn so he could be seen. "Look. There's nothing you can give me that I want. I have no interest in helping out the White Tiger, but I'll take the money as payment for what your Syndicate already owes me. Go on home and tell your handlers you made a lousy patsy, before I kill you."  
  
"My Syndicate is the supplier of the funds. It is your Syndicate that authorized the payment. To my knowledge, we owed you nothing."  
  
Without taking his hands from his pockets, Spike fired a round into the cement at the man's feet. "Careful," he said as the figure retreated into the shadow of the locked parking lot. "I could have put an eye out with that."  
  
He laughed to himself, in spite of the strange situation, as he made his way on down the sidewalk toward Annie's. He'd wanted to say that to a White Tiger for years. 


	12. Something Rotten

XII. Something Rotten  
  
When he felt the thud against his rib cage, Spike instinctively threw out a roundhouse kick, hoping to take down whoever had managed to sucker-punch him. It wasn't until a few seconds later, when he felt his shirt sticking to his side, that he realized he had been shot and not hit. Cold spread out across his chest from left to right, and down so that his left hip threatened to give out under his weight. He fell back into a sheltered crouch next to a huge oak desk, and scooted back and under it, breathing shallow, the room swimming in his left-eye view. Nausea crept up his throat as he tried to stay conscious.  
  
Dully, he realized Vicious' boots were inches from his hiding place. "Vicious," he called out, as quietly as he could, "Get me out of here." He saw the swirl of a coat and the flash of the katana, and then Vicious knelt in front of him, eyes blazing.  
  
Vicious assessed his wounded partner in one hasty look, and Spike was surprised to see relief on his face, because the words that formed on his lips were, "I will avenge you." He was out of Spike's range of vision before he could protest, and the room swirled into blackness.  
  
His next conscious thought was that he was pushing through a strange, gray fog, for all appearances ordinary, except that it seemed to cling to his outstretched arms and face and keep his eyes from opening fully. He heard voices all around, unfamiliar, and thought for a sickening moment that he was back in the Tigers' torture chamber, that he couldn't open his eyes or see because they'd managed to take both of them this time. He couldn't hear with the blood rushing in his ears when he tried to move, so he lay still, taking in what he could.  
  
"Did you see their faces?" a gleeful exclamation, from a thick-sounding man. "Just like at Henshai's, only this time they thought they had us set up!"  
  
A snicker, from another direction. "I didn't see the girl who let Reno get away last time. Wonder if she got demoted to the kitchen." This voice was thin, almost whiny – young. Spike tried to match the voices to the faces he had seen when they entered the warehouse; he knew now that he was in the present, alive somehow and without his comrades. He thought he could hear four people in the hearty laughter that followed.  
  
He drifted, not sure if the voices were moving away or if he was losing consciousness again, but finally he heard the clunk of a crossbolt as the warehouse door closed.  
  
Summoning his martial arts concentration as best he could, he slowed his pounding heartbeat so that he could open his eyes without dizziness. To great relief, he discovered he still had both of them – his one-step-behind left, and his perfect right. He tried to reach his lighter with his left hand, but that side of his body was uncooperative, so he twisted his right arm around to the opposite pocket of his trenchcoat, and sparked the flint. In the dim glow, he thought for a moment he was lying in a pool of motor oil, but as his eyes adjusted and color resolved, he realized he was surrounded, for at least a two-foot radius all around his torso, with what was probably his own blood.  
  
Bile rose in his throat and his vision swam again. Perspective stretched in and out like someone playing with the focus on an old 35MM camera. He heaved himself forward onto his right hand, dropping the lighter, retching, but the pain of the motion was so great that he stopped moving and breathing altogether. When the wave had passed, he sucked in a thin breath through his nose, trying not to hyperventilate, and struggled to stand, cradling his numb left arm across the open wound that seemed to lead directly to his heart.  
  
Maybe they didn't hit it, he thought, maybe I'm the most heartless son of a bitch on Mars.  
  
He had to let go of the limp arm to raise the crossbolt that held the door closed, and when he did, pain seared through his rib cage and shoulder, snapping him completely awake. He panted like an animal, could feel the cold as the wind rushed over the sheen of sweat on his face, over his clothes no doubt so wet from blood. When he took stock of his location, though, his step faltered, and he leaned against the doorway while he weighed the value of survival against the trek through no-man's-land into a neighborhood where he doubted anyone would open a door to him.  
  
But he hadn't survived this wound so far just to lie down and die twenty feet from where it bled out, and so he began the walk. He tried to stay as straight on course as possible, to reduce the effort required to make progress. From a distance, he looked like he stood at an impossible angle, both arms folded over his bleeding torso, leaning forward and catching himself from falling at the last second by throwing a long, thin leg out in front. In this way, he eventually found himself at a wider street, and he looked up and around, turning right because that was the leg that seemed more likely to hold him.  
  
The light from the shop windows made his head pound, and the pounding made him nauseous again. He bumped into a trash can, looked up, and saw loaves of bread on the other side of the glass. Something about bread... Something about a bakery. And this place. And then he realized that he was only a few feet from Julia's stairway. Julia hadn't gone with them tonight. Julia might be at home.  
  
His strength flagged as he contemplated a stopping place. One foot in front of the other, he thought while the fog tunneled around his left-side peripheral vision. Keep moving. And then a flash of light distracted him, and he felt air rush past as he toppled forward onto the sidewalk. The light had come from a doorway – Julia's doorway – and there, like Charon waiting to take him across the river, was Julia, with her coat on and her handbag clutched. He met her eyes for a brief second, saw the shock register there, and then let the blackness take him.  
  
***  
  
Julia dropped her book with a half-sigh and picked up the buzzing comm. It was almost midnight; not an unusual time for Vicious to call, but also past the hour when she wanted to be summoned out of her evening routine. One look at his face had her gathering her effects, though – he had told her he was meeting with the Van tonight, but his hair was matted with blood and a fresh bandage covered the bridge of his nose. "What the hell happened?" she demanded as she pulled on a shoe.  
  
From Vicious' end, the images on the comm. were a blur of her apartment at strange angles, making him dizzy. "Julia! Sit down," he barked in a tight voice. She did so before she realized it.  
  
"Better," he nodded. "We got set up."  
  
She furrowed her brow at the comm. "The Van? What happened?" she asked again.  
  
He hesitated a moment before replying. "We didn't meet with the Van tonight. We went to make sure a sale with Rocket went through as planned. Spike found out he's been skipping shipments."  
  
"Why didn't you call me?" It had been almost three weeks since that strange night with him and then Spike; she had thought it all behind them.  
  
"We had everyone we needed at the tower," he said dismissively. "I didn't really think we needed heavy artillery. We've been breaking Rocket down ever since this assignment started."  
  
"But he set us up? Who went with you? Who knew about it?"  
  
"Just me," Vicious sighed. "I took Spike and Lin, and Marcus. Last minute," he repeated.  
  
"What do we do now?" She waited for the meet location, the list of artillery to bring with her, which car she was to drive.  
  
Vicious dropped his eyes from the comm. She realized with a sick jolt that this wasn't just a political issue.  
  
"Vicious, what happened?"  
  
"The first thing we do is bury Spike."  
  
The room swam. Noise from the street below grew louder; the headlights of a passing car tracked across the ceiling. The comm. fell to her lap, forgotten, and images flashed through her mind – a pool hall, Vicious and Spike hustling the patrons; Vicious and Spike sitting in the overstuffed armchairs of the Dragon library, dirty boots on the antique coffee tables; Spike's face shifting from pain to anger as a bullet hit his shoulder and spun him around at Henshai's; the look of helpless confusion he gave her when she broke down in front of him later that night.  
  
"No," she said to the yellow walls. "No."  
  
Vicious broke the reverie. "Julia, I need you. I need your help." If she had been in any other frame of mind, it would have sounded foreign, but she just looked at the comm. in her hand, nodded, and shut it off.  
  
She drew herself up off the couch, packed the comm. and her gun in her purse, and pulled her coat on before turning off the light.  
  
The stairs stretched out for a million miles in front of her, and she gripped the railing as she descended. Finally at the bottom, she leaned against the door handle for a moment, willing the nausea and the tears to subside before she went out to face the night. The first thing she heard as she pushed it open was the baker, Holling, asking "Are you all right?" She turned in his direction, but he wasn't looking at her. He was looking down at the sidewalk, and she followed his gaze to the fallen form in front of her – long limbs splayed beneath a black trenchcoat, a shock of green- black hair, blood and rust-brown eyes. They met her confused expression before the face – Spike's face, she knew, but could not process – dropped to the sidewalk and was still.  
  
She wasn't sure how many seconds passed while she stood there, holding the door open, trying to piece together the scene in front of her. It was Holling who got to him first, shaking his shoulder, checking his pulse, and then looking up at Julia. "Don't you know this guy?"  
  
She nodded and shook herself, dropped to her knees, and gently lifted one of his shoulders to turn him over. He seemed impossibly heavy, but he was still breathing – she could hear it, a horrible, wet, rattling sound. She gasped at the blood that had stained every inch of his gray dress shirt; his coat was sticky with it and she fingered a hole in the back where a bullet had obviously blown through. She had no idea how he was alive – now she had spotted the entrance wound, on the left side, where his heart would be. Looking up at Holling, who was clearly out of his element, she said, "We have to get him off the street."  
  
"I'm sorry, Julia, but he can't come in my shop."  
  
She shook her head. "No, I'll take him to my apartment."  
  
"He needs to go to a hospital!" Holling was pulling his comm. out of his apron pocket, but she shook her head again.  
  
"I can help him. And if I can't, he doesn't have time to make it to the hospital, either. Please help me?"  
  
Holling weighed his options, saw that he already had blood on his pants where he'd knelt beside Spike, and issued a curt grunt. He propped the shop door open with an elbow, called out, "Back in a minute!" and turned back to her. "You think we should move him?"  
  
Julia looked down the sidewalk at the unmistakable trail of blood. "He got here by himself, so I doubt moving him now would do any new damage." She took off her coat and laid it on the ground. "Let's get him onto this, and then we can use it like a litter to carry him." She didn't bother explaining that she hoped to prevent the blood trail continuing straight to her apartment, but she did tell Holling sharply, "If anyone comes in and asks, you saw him get into a car. A gray sedan. You didn't see the drivers. All right?"  
  
He glared at her. "What are you into, Julia?"  
  
"No time," she replied.  
  
The truth was that they had plenty of time, as they struggled to get Spike up the three flights of stairs to her apartment. They spent it in silence all the same; Julia was baffled at how a man who was barely visible sideways could weigh what felt like at least two hundred pounds. He did not stir during the transport, but kept up with the ragged shallow breathing, and she dared to let herself hope when they reached her door. She discovered she had forgotten to lock it when she left – all the better, since they would have had to put Spike down for her to find her keys. She shouldered the light switch and looked around the room, wondering where on earth to put him.  
  
"Bathtub," Holling grunted. "I don't think I can hold him up much longer. He'll ruin your floor anywhere else."  
  
She nodded and led the way to the bathroom, her fingers going numb from clinging to the fabric of her coat. They levered Spike into the clawfoot tub where he sprawled, head over the rounded back lip, arms akimbo, feet on either side of the water faucet. It would have been comical, had the position not also afforded her a very clear view of his blood-soaked clothing, ashen face, and that awful high-caliber hole through his shirt, right over the heart.  
  
She stood, found a towel, and handed it to Holling. "Thank you. I owe you. Remember, gray sedan, didn't see the drivers. You didn't notice until they pulled over and stopped."  
  
He glared at her. "Girl like you shouldn't associate with punks and gangs," he muttered. "Gotta go change my pants."  
  
If he only knew... a girl like her could hold her own with the punks and the gangs. She pulled a fistful of cash from her pocket and peeled off a few thousand. "For some new pants," she replied. "Thank you again."  
  
He shook his head and let himself out, grumbling under his breath.  
  
Julia stared down at Spike for a few moments, taking in the bloody trail a workboot sole had left across his cheek, the deep split in his chin from a hard punch, the angry red lump on his temple. He hadn't just been shot – he had been battered. On autopilot, she stood and went to collect a pitcher, towels, and medical supplies. Everywhere she went, she could hear the rattle of his breath, and in a strange way it comforted her. The pace of it had evened out. She returned and started the faucet, watching the blood spreading out in tendrils through the water in the bottom of the tub. When it was warm, she filled the pitcher and lifted it to rinse his chin and neck.  
  
She laid a hand on the side of his face and was shocked at how cold he felt. If she undressed him in the open air, he'd be freezing, she realized, and turned on the heat register as she closed the door. While she waited for the temperature to rise, she struggled with his necktie, but it was soaked with drying blood, and she had to cut it away with the surgical scissors. She dropped it on the floor and went to work unbuttoning his shirt; that, too, proved near impossible and she finally pulled her throwing knife from its sheath on her thigh and slashed the cloth away.  
  
"That's why you're alive," she whispered with simultaneous relief and horror. His shirt must have been twisted across his chest when the bullet hit, because the actual wound was a gaping hole about an inch into his rib cage. She could see bone at the edge of the hole, but despite his rattling breath, the blood had congealed without bubbling. The bullet had missed his lung as well.  
  
Satisfied that she could deal with it, as long as there were not worse surprises in store, she set to work getting him undressed to clean the wound properly. She pulled his collar back and understood why he was so heavy – the high collared shirts and jackets he always wore camouflaged thickly muscled shoulders that sloped the full width across. "You're tougher than you look," she told the unconscious man. "Of course, I knew that anyway, but now I know your secret." With the throwing knife, she cut the length of each shirt and jacket sleeve from collar to cuff, peeling back the bloody cloth and revealing the rest of his torso. Now she could see more damage: the knife wound in his left shoulder where the stitches had barely healed, defensive bruises and cuts on his forearms where he'd blocked other blows. The wiry, sculpted muscle of those arms surprised her as his shoulders had – in a bomber jacket, he looked like a skinny kid, but he obviously devoted tremendous attention to his physique. Strange, because other than his flirtation with her when they first met, she couldn't remember Spike giving much more than the time of day to any woman he'd been around in her company. "You take this whole tough guy thing a lot more seriously than you let on," she said.  
  
He mumbled something and a blush spread across her face at the fact that she'd been staring at him instead of working on his wounds, but he didn't seem conscious. It had certainly gotten hot enough that he was in no danger of a chill. She looked at her dress, stuck to her chest and arms with blood and sweat, and gave him another long look to see if he would stir before peeling down to her underwear and dropping the ruined clothing with his own on the floor.  
  
She found a rhythm in washing him, with the water thundering at the drain. After a dozen pitchers, it had begun to run only slightly pink unless it came into contact with the hole in his chest, so she turned it off and set to work with the antibiotic foam. She was mystified at what to do with the damage to the bone, but from what she could see his rib had chipped rather than shattered, at least in front. She gagged as she tweezed the stray pieces out. "I thought stitches were bad," she told him, keeping conversation so she wouldn't have to think about the task too hard. Those were easy after the bone-fishing project, and for the second time she felt grateful he was unconscious, this time because he wouldn't complain as she stitched him up.  
  
"I think we're almost done," she told him when his shoulder and chest were sewn together and his face bandaged. "One more mending project." She pushed his right arm down, trying to leverage his weight so she could get him turned on his side in the tub. But his legs were too long and had to be moved first; she could see that he had begun bleeding again while she jostled him. For the first time it dawned on her that she might have a difficult time getting him out of the tub when she was finished. And in turn, she realized for the first time that she had not showed up to meet Vicious. She fumbled in the pocket of her jacket where it hung over the edge of the tub and pulled out the comm. It was mostly dry, though blood had seeped through the lining onto the screen. She dialed Vicious and hastily pulled a towel around her shoulders, realizing what he'd see when he picked up.  
  
He did so on the first buzz, his face flat and calm. "You're alive. Good."  
  
"Vicious, I'm sorry. But Spike is alive. He's here. He showed up here, right as I was leaving. I was so worried about – "  
  
"He came to your apartment?" he interrupted. "He could have gotten you killed, he could have led someone there!"  
  
"But he's alive," she argued. "He's alive and I think he'll make it."  
  
She saw confusion cross Vicious' features so briefly she might have imagined it. "Which is good news. But Julia, he's barely three blocks from where the ambush happened. What were you thinking taking him into your apartment?"  
  
She glared at the screen. "I didn't know about your little adventure, remember? I didn't know it was practically in my back yard. Why doesn't it matter to you that Spike is alive?"  
  
He spoke to someone off-screen in a tone that didn't carry over the comm. "Yes," he said, turning back to her, "Of course I am glad he is alive. But I am upset that he could have taken you down with him if he were not."  
  
"I need help moving him. He's in the bathtub. He can't stay there." She rushed through the words, nervous at Vicious' reaction and hoping that a task to do would make him drop the line of conversation.  
  
But he was intent on the details of her situation. "Who saw you take him upstairs?"  
  
"Holling helped me. It was past midnight; I don't think anyone saw us. I told him to say he saw Spike get into a gray sedan if anyone happened to ask."  
  
"Good. That's a start. But I cannot come back there tonight," he went on, almost to himself. "If you managed to get Spike upstairs without being seen, it would be foolish for me to draw attention to you again."  
  
"What am I supposed to do?" she asked, desperation creeping into her tone. "Look at him." She aimed the comm. at his body in the bathtub, slumped to one side, the angry wound in his back still exposed.  
  
"Wait until he wakes up and let him get up himself," was the best Vicious could offer. "I'll contact you again in the morning."  
  
She stared helplessly at the comm. Vicious cut off the question she was formulating. "I'm pretty sure he was shot in the leg as well," he said. "Would have been easy to miss in all that blood." And the comm. went dark, leaving her alone again with an unconscious man in her bathroom.  
  
She supposed Vicious had a point. She'd have to try and revive Spike; he had walked three blocks to find her, so there was a good chance he'd come around eventually. The news of a bullet in his leg worried her, although it explained why so much blood had appeared when she tried to turn him over. She worked quickly to clean and stitch the wound on his back, gagging her way through another fishing expedition with the bits of back rib that had been shattered when the bullet punched through between them. "At least there's no bullet to retrieve," she said, bringing him up to speed. He had nothing to say. "Lucky for you they didn't bother using their crosstips on you guys."  
  
With the through-and-through hole patched, she explored his legs, finally finding the injury Vicious had mentioned. It was little more than a graze, an angry and bleeding welt but not an entry wound. It would make moving painful, she knew from experience – right at the point where his hip bent, it would not heal unless immobile and it would protest mightily if not. She unbuckled his belt and managed to pull it free, and then contemplated destroying the rest of his clothing with the knife. What would he do if he were awake? Would he even allow her to work on this injury? She shook his right shoulder gently, the towel-and-underwear getup forgotten. "Spike?" He didn't stir. "Spike!" she shouted, the name echoing back to her off the tile of the shower. She lifted his right eyelid and his iris immediately contracted against the light, staring straight ahead.  
  
She was about to berate him for playing possum when she looked more closely at the eye. She'd always known it was a slight mismatch for his other one, but now she saw that the eyeball was perfectly white, the iris patterns too perfect, the circle around his pupil too symmetrical. It was a cybernetic eye, a very well made and obviously functional one. It must have responded to the light in the room even though his brain took no notice.  
  
To test her theory, she let it close and lifted the left lid. The iris of this one was barely visible, rolled upward. She felt a surge of guilt for doubting him and laid a palm against his cheek, whispering, "Forgive me. I think I'm about to violate you."  
  
Removing his boots proved a challenge. They didn't seem to have any zippers or fasteners, and hugged his feet like permanent appendages. Eventually she managed to get one off and fell back, not expecting its weight. They looked so strangely feminine, with their round toe, but she saw now that the toes were solid metal, the inside of the boot lined in sherpa fleece for comfort. No wonder a kick from him did so much damage.  
  
When the other boot was off, the throwing knife slid through his pant leg as though it were paper. She parted the two sides of the cloth and cut his boxers, careful to reveal only the wounded area of his hip. But as she ran more water to wash it, she realized it would do no good to leave him a quarter-dressed in bloody clothes; the risk of infection would increase, and the wet cloth would make a chill more likely. She tackled the cut first. Stitches wouldn't help the open graze, so she sprayed it liberally with antibiotic foam and taped bandages over it, trying to avoid taping too much of his hair down with them. She took a deep breath – unsure of why the prospect bothered her so much – and sliced through the rest of his clothing, laying him bare in the tub in a nest of bloody cloth.  
  
She couldn't help the increase in her pulse, and despite her guilt, she let her eyes roam. There was nothing slight about him in the nude. His physique in clothing was an apparition, obviously a valuable weapon for the way it made his opponents underestimate him. He was all muscle, sinewy and lean but solid. "Everything about you is long, too, isn't it?" she breathed with a chuckle, and blushed so hard she felt the heat despite the sauna the room had become. She shook herself slightly and turned the water on again, careful not to let it soak the new bandages, using the one remaining clean cloth to gently wipe the blood from the rest of his skin. Even through it, she felt a thrill, and she told herself she was only being thorough, but the errand was far from unpleasant. Too soon, she had to admit to herself that there was no more blood to remove and she sat back on her heels, contemplating her next move.  
  
"You're going to have to wake up," she said, putting her hand on his uninjured right shoulder. "But I should probably do something to lessen the shock." She carefully pulled his tattered clothing out from underneath him, piling it on the floor, and wrapped a clean towel around his waist. Remembering her own state of undress, she pulled her bathrobe on and tied it securely, looking down at him and wondering what on earth she could do to bring him around. Something from an old movie came back to her, and she rummaged through the cleaning supplies under the sink until she found a bottle of ammonia. She doused a tissue with it, her eyes watering, and carried it to the tub, waving it under Spike's nose.  
  
For a moment, nothing happened. She was about to give up when she saw his left cheek twitch; he grimaced and began to cough, which was followed immediately by a half-groan, half-scream. She remembered his chest wound and gasped, pulling the tissue away and dropping to her knees. "Oh, god, I'm sorry Spike." She put a hand on his chest and lifted his head off the back of the tub. He half-opened his right eye, trained it on her, and choked out, "I'm dead."  
  
"No, no, you're not. You had better not be." On instinct, she pulled his face to her chest, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.  
  
"I'm dead," he repeated with a little more strength. "I saw you before I died. Why are you still here?"  
  
"You're in my apartment, Spike. You're alive, I promise." She sat back and looked into his eyes; the left seemed blurry, and his face was still far too pale.  
  
He blinked, blinked again, and tried to sit up, emitting another tortured groan.  
  
"Shot me – in the heart." He dropped back, looking for the first time at his surroundings. "Heaven is a bathroom?"  
  
She couldn't help but laugh. "Sure. My bathroom, no less. With me in it."  
  
He turned his face toward her. "I'm in your bathtub." He looked down. "I'm wearing a towel." He turned back to her. "Heaven is your bathroom and we just took a bath."  
  
His eyes closed as he lay back again. "I'm just sorry I missed it." He let out a long sigh, and she shook his shoulder gently.  
  
"Spike, no. You need to stay awake, just for a few minutes. We need to get you out of here, somewhere more comfortable."  
  
"'M comfortable," he mumbled.  
  
She looked around in desperation. "HEY!" she shouted, but he barely stirred. She wanted to use the ammonia again, but couldn't bear the thought of him coughing. With a sigh, she slid her arm around his back, avoiding the bandages as best she could, and draped his right arm over her shoulder. She gathered her strength and clung to his arm as she tried to stand. He moaned, but the jostling seemed to bring him back, at least momentarily. "Don't," he whispered, "that hurts."  
  
"Please get up, Spike. You only have to walk a few feet. You can lay down and sleep then." She spoke gently, her cheek against his bare chest, close to tears at the pain in his voice.  
  
He turned his face slightly, bumping his chin on the top of her head, and groaned again. "God. Everything hurts."  
  
"I know. Please come with me. Then you can sleep."  
  
"I'll try," he whispered, and drew his knees up. She pulled on his arm again and this time he managed to rise with her, though she carried most of his weight. He got his right leg out of the tub without incident, but the left with the bullet graze didn't want to follow.  
  
"Hold on to me, Spike," she coaxed, and bent to lift his leg at the knee so he could stand beside her. When he seemed steady, she cupped his face in her hand and turned him to face her. "Can we go twelve steps?" she asked, looking into his eyes, willing him to stay with her. He nodded.  
  
She led him from the bathroom, through the narrow doorway to her bed, and eased him down onto the mattress. His hand slipped from her shoulder and hung over the side, but at least now she could manage; she used the blankets beneath him to pull his body into the center of the bed and wrapped them around him. He was either unconscious again or asleep - his expression had faded from anguish to nothing at all. She turned the side table lamp on, smoothed his hair back from his face, and went to clean up the mess. 


	13. Money for Nothing

XIII. Money for Nothing  
  
Vicious paced the length of Mao's office in quick strides, moving the blinds to look at the street outside and then crossing the room again. Marcus sat in the chair opposite Mao, following Vicious with only his eyes, fingers laced over his stomach. Mato stood beside his father, while Lin leaned against the closed door, hands in his pockets.  
  
"How did they know?" Vicious burst out, any pretense of self-control gone. "We were all together when Spike found out about the sale, and we went. Who did you talk to before you left?" He rounded on his audience.  
  
"A better question would be why you did not call me," Mato replied darkly.  
  
"You run your own team. You were not here. I did not think I would need you." Vicious finally sat in the chair beside Marcus.  
  
"Perhaps it is just as well," Mao said. "To have had all of you in the same place would have been an even greater risk. You were instructed to operate your teams separately. That you and Spike would take your seconds and set out for a confrontation without so much as a word to anyone in the Syndicate, and without any other backup, disturbs me greatly."  
  
Vicious shook his head, running through the events of the night in his mind. "Discipline me later if you wish, but our decision is not the problem we should be discussing."  
  
Mao stood. "You have been disciplined sufficiently, I think. We can only hope Spike survives, so you will come to appreciate how lucky you were that this did not end worse."  
  
Unthinking, Vicious' hand went to the hilt of his katana as he rose to face Mao. "Spike said he'd been warned someone within the Red Dragon wanted to sabotage the distribution agreement. I told no one of our action because of his warning. It seemed like an opportunity to identify the infidel."  
  
"And so you left me out of it?" Mato asked. "Draw your sword, and you'll not draw another breath."  
  
Vicious seemed to realize his stance for the first time, and let his hands drop to his sides.  
  
Marcus put a hand on his arm, encouraging him to sit, as he spoke. "I wasn't here when Spike got the heads-up about the sale. Were you?"  
  
Vicious nodded. "He got a phone call from Lin's brother."  
  
All eyes turned to Lin, and he hesitated.  
  
"Shin buys from Rocket," he finally admitted. "A problem I have been working hard to curb. Rocket called him and offered him first shot at a new shipment. At least Shin had the good sense to call Spike and I, and tell us about it. Vicious said we hadn't sold anything to Rocket since the agreement went into effect."  
  
Mao sat again, turning in his chair to face Lin. "Does Rocket know Shin is your brother?"  
  
"It's possible," Lin allowed, "but I doubt it. Shin has lived with my grandmother his whole life. He's never been offered work with the Syndicate..."  
  
"Because he abuses its products," Mao cut in. "Did you know Rocket before this assignment began?"  
  
Lin shook his head. "You know I worked weapons before this. The first time Rocket saw me was last night. Vicious' team has been in charge of him up until now."  
  
"Which makes it even stranger that Shin would call Spike about the sale," Mao concluded. "Unless he was instructed to do so."  
  
The meaning of his words sunk in.  
  
"Vicious, you need to tell us everything you know about this warning Spike received." Mao sat back in his chair expectantly.  
  
Vicious' eyes glittered. "I hope you understand my hesitation, especially after the events of tonight."  
  
"I do not," Mao said, his tone grave. "It is apparent to me that Spike was targeted for elimination, and that the call he received from Shin was orchestrated somehow. Whatever you know, you need to share it, or I will bring you up before the Van and they can take it from you by force."  
  
"You do not need to threaten me," Vicious replied sullenly. "But I know very little. He was apparently given a large sum of money, and told later by someone he did not know, someone who implied ties to the White Tiger, that the money was intended to convince him to look away while other distributions continued to take place in the warehouse district."  
  
"Why haven't we heard about this?" Mato blurted out.  
  
"Shut up and listen, and maybe you will be able to figure it out," Vicious retorted. "The White Tiger who contacted him said a Red Dragon made the transfer to his bank account, and that he would face retaliation from within the Red Dragon if he did not do what he was paid to do. Obviously, he is above suspicion, as he has continued to carry out the mission and identify sales that were not our own."  
  
"Has he been contacted again?" Mao asked.  
  
"If he has, I have not been told about it." Vicious dropped his face to his hands, rubbing his eyes. "And now he is at Julia's, and there is far too high a chance he will be found."  
  
"Why do you say that?" Lin pushed off the wall and crossed to the window.  
  
"I left him," Vicious said to himself. "I thought he was dead. He had a bullet in his heart. And he walked from the warehouse to Julia's."  
  
They all fell silent, contemplating that trek.  
  
"He left a trail of blood from the warehouse to her door," Vicious went on. "She had her neighbor help take him upstairs. Too many people are involved in this."  
  
He rose, but Mao stopped him with a warning. "Their involvement will become all the more troublesome if they start disappearing."  
  
"What are we supposed to do?" He tried not to show it, but Vicious felt closer to panic than he'd ever been. He hadn't recovered from the shock of believing Spike dead, and now he bore the weight of leaving him behind, and of Julia being drawn into the mess.  
  
"We pray that Spike survives the night," Mao replied, much more gently. "We do not speak of this outside this room, even between ourselves. I will work on arranging a safehouse for Spike, so that he can be moved as soon as it is practical. I suggest you all stay here at the tower tonight," he concluded. "And Vicious, I wish to speak with you alone before you retire for the evening."  
  
The other three men recognized the dismissal and rose to leave. As Lin passed him on the way to the door, he put a hand on Vicious' shoulder, but dropped it when his look went unreturned.  
  
When they were alone, Mao opened his desk drawer, and Vicious watched warily until he came up with two tumblers and a bottle of Scotch. "Sit," Mao offered, waving a hand at the chair across from him.  
  
Vicious obeyed, his mind racing.  
  
"You blame yourself." It was not a question.  
  
Vicious took the offered drink and leaned his elbows on Mao's desk, looking into the glass.  
  
"You are strong and worthy of power," Mao went on, "but you have not yet earned it. Lessons like this help make us ready to wield it."  
  
"I fail to see a moral to this story," Vicious replied.  
  
"It has not yet been revealed. The task of uncovering it falls to you. For myself, I see that suspicion has spread like a virus, between you and Spike and your men, so that none of you trusts the order of the Syndicate, even though it is the only thing that can protect you."  
  
Vicious took a swallow of scotch and gritted his teeth, letting the vapors rise up into his sinuses and dull the headache that formed there. "If someone within the Red Dragon set us up, it can hardly be considered good protection."  
  
"I do not wish to seem flippant," Mao said, "but what assurance do you have that there is involvement on the part of the Red Dragon? Nothing but the word of a White Tiger, from what I know."  
  
"The transfer of money was made electronically, directly into Spike's Syndicate account. The only way someone could do that would be to know the Red Dragon financial system, to be able to recognize the pattern of transactions in order to identify his account." Setting the glass down on the blotter, Vicious sat back in the chair and rubbed a hand over his eyes.  
  
Mao did not reply for some time. He refilled his glass again before he finally said, "You make a strong case. It would be difficult for anyone, even someone involved in the legitimate side of our financial affairs, to know where money comes from and goes to, and in what quantities, and for what reason."  
  
Vicious spread his hands. "I did not even know, until he told me, that Spike received a benefit for his father's death. I assumed he did, since I do as well, but the subject never came up."  
  
"And it should not," Mao said sharply.  
  
Vicious nodded without answering.  
  
"You should not contact Julia or Spike unless you absolutely must, for the next few days. I will speak to Annie and instruct her not to talk about Spike's absence or whereabouts." Mao put the bottle away and began assembling his papers. "I will investigate this financial transaction."  
  
Vicious rose to his feet. "Marcus worked directly for Ichido before he was assigned to my team. I will ask him to assist you."  
  
"That will not be necessary," Mao replied. "In fact, have you spoken of this matter with Marcus or anyone else?"  
  
"No, the most anyone has heard is what was said tonight." Vicious looked at him closely.  
  
"That should be all they hear," Mao mused. "I will go directly to Ichido about the accounting. He answers directly to the Van, as do I – I will not bother with anyone lower in the chain of command."  
  
Vicious bowed low, and then rose to look Mao in the eye. "I have been blessed with many wise fathers," he said, and left the office, shutting the door softly behind him.  
  
***  
  
Julia lay on the couch, wrapped in an afghan, listening to Spike breathe in the next room. She had been staring at the sculpture of leaping fish – another gift from Vicious – for so long they seemed to ripple like real animals. Sleep would not come; every time the sound of breathing slowed or changed, she was instantly alert. Her comm. had been silent for hours, and though she did not expect to hear from Vicious until morning, it bothered her all the same.  
  
She rose and padded into the bedroom to look down at Spike as he slept. His lips were dry, almost cracked, and she stroked his forehead gently. "Spike? Can I get you some water? Do you think you could drink it?"  
  
He stirred slightly, but did not reply. She went for a glass anyway, and sat beside him on the mattress, sliding a hand around his shoulders to lift his head, raising the glass to his lips. After a moment and a short cough, he swallowed a drink, and then turned his head against her.  
  
"Later," he mumbled, and she eased his head back down to the pillow; he was out again. She lay down beside him with a hand on his right shoulder, and meant to stay for only a moment – but sleep stole over her with the steady rise and fall of his skin under her fingers. 


	14. Lull Before the Storm

XIV. Lull Before the Storm  
  
Vicious felt his pulse increase with every buzz of the comm., willing Julia to answer. When she finally did, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. "I was beginning to worry," he said, and his tone made it clear he meant it.  
  
"I'm sorry," she replied, and he saw from the circles under her eyes that she had slept no more than he. "I was in the other room."  
  
"Has Spike woken up?"  
  
She shrugged. "Once, so I could move him. But not really since then. He's lost so much blood, Vicious. I don't know how he's alive."  
  
"I think he gives death so little consideration, it ignores him out of spite," Vicious said with a faint smile. It faded as he went on. "I cannot contact you for the next few days. No one else should, either. If they do, say nothing of Spike's condition and notify me immediately. You should not try to reach me under any other circumstances."  
  
"I don't understand. What really happened tonight?" Panic squeezed her stomach; she could take almost anything except being kept in the dark.  
  
"If Spike wakes, he can tell you, if he chooses. No one else should."  
  
"Why did you leave him there?" she asked.  
  
Vicious inhaled sharply, a dark look crossing his features. "You saw him. They shot him in the heart. Not even Spike should have survived that. I had to try and get Lin and Marcus out safely as well. Remember the lesson I tried to teach you after Henshai's?"  
  
She looked down. "Of course. But he's more than your partner, Vicious. I know that. Everyone knows that."  
  
"And they tried to use it against me," he said curtly. "It did not work."  
  
"Fortunately for Spike, they didn't shoot him in the heart. Although I thought they had, too, at first."  
  
"We are all fortunate, Julia, Spike most of all. But fortune can shine on only one side of a coin at a time. We cannot count on it to always shine on ours." Vicious sighed. "I need to attend to other matters. Accept instructions from no one but myself or Mao."  
  
"All right," she replied. She stared hard at his face on the screen. "As soon as you can, please, I need to hear your voice again."  
  
He nodded and disconnected.  
  
She went back into the bedroom, shutting off the lamp now that the sunlight filtered through the curtains. Spike had not moved at all, and she drew back the blankets, feeling a pang of fear at how his wounds had continued to bleed during the night. She weighed the options of leaving the apartment against leaving him alone, and decided if they were going to be stuck there, she would have to have medical supplies.  
  
"I'm going across to the sundry," she told him, in case he could hear her. "I'll be back within ten minutes. Don't go anywhere while I'm out."  
  
He continued breathing evenly. She pulled the blankets back around him, careful not to disturb his position, and left to stock up for the days ahead.  
  
***  
  
Through a haze of pain and thirst, Spike heard a door close, and then the sound of traffic outside. The light through his eyelids suggested it was day; he contemplated opening them, but for some reason they did not want to obey. He found that he could move his right hand if he concentrated hard enough, and then both of his feet, but all his limbs seemed impossibly heavy and somehow shrunken, a dull ache in every fiber like the life had been sucked out of him. The pain in his chest and head increased with the exertion and he stopped trying to move, letting his pulse return to a slow, steady thump. Each heartbeat irritated the ache in his muscles; he began to think he saw bright lights in time with each throb. He was almost over the brink into unconsciousness when he heard the door open again, and then a light step, shuffling of bags and keys. He searched his memory for something to explain this position; images came back to him in disjointed flashes, like a slideshow in double-time. Vicious. His lighter in a pool of blood. Julia's face swimming in and out of focus in a white room. Had he really seen Julia? Everything hurt too much for him to be dead. He took a deep breath and willed his eyes open, trying to focus on what he saw above his head.  
  
Yellows and oranges; paintings in the same tones inside gilt frames; a sculpture on a dresser. The light fixture on the ceiling was dark. He knew the colors were Julia's, but he'd never been in this room, if it was hers. He tried to recall when he'd seen her – standing in her doorway, and then that white room... tile. Bathroom. She'd spoken to him, but he couldn't put together the words she'd said.  
  
The way his left eye would not focus made him dizzy, and he let them close again as he heard the footsteps enter the room. "Julia?" he tried to say, but it came out nothing more than an exhalation.  
  
"Spike!" it was her voice, he thought with relief. "Spike, stay with me for a minute." He felt the mattress sink, a hand on his shoulder, another on his forehead. He did not open his eyes again, but nodded weakly.  
  
"You need to drink some water," she said, and the mattress shifted again. Then the hand went from his shoulder to the back of his neck, lifting his head, and he felt the cool glass against his lip. He took a few swallows, but nausea welled up and he turned away, finally trying to look at her.  
  
Her face was drawn tight with concern. He attempted a smile, though his jaw hurt too much to allow the movement. "You saved me?"  
  
"Shh. Don't talk." She pulled back the blankets and he fought a shiver. "I need to change these bandages, and it's going to hurt. I brought something to help with that."  
  
He let his eyes close again when she stood and left the room, listening to the crackle of a paper bag and the rattle of pills. She returned, lifting his head again, and her breath was warm against his face as she leaned in, placing a tablet on his tongue. It was horribly bitter, but she brought him the glass and he swallowed as much as he could, fighting the urge to gag.  
  
"Go back to sleep, Spike," she said in a whisper. "I won't leave you again. Go back to sleep, and I'll take care of you."  
  
He wanted to thank her, but while he tried to gather the strength, the drug she'd given him spread out through his body in a warm wave. He felt himself falling, tried to catch hold of something but found no purchase, and saw the light glow bright behind his eyelids before it faded to nothingness.  
  
***  
  
Vicious, twenty-one, lean and fierce but smiling, drove his cue forward with a fluid motion and the break scattered the billiard balls across the table, sinking the one and the two. Spike tried to look around, but he was trapped in the memory, watching it play out through his own point of view. He stepped aside to allow Vicious' opponent access to the bumper where the cue ball had come to rest.  
  
The man grumbled as he aimed, his cue jacked up high in the air to try and make contact with the ball in the scant half-inch between it and the edge of the table. The shot misfired; the cue ball clicked off the five and came to rest in the middle of a cluster of balls, the three blocked behind the nine.  
  
As Vicious bent to take his shot, aiming to bumper-lock the cue ball again, Spike caught a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye and looked up. A woman had come into the pool room through the back door. She wore black patent leather. Her long blond hair went with her enormous, Nordic blue eyes, and they met his gaze evenly as she assembled the two halves of a cue stick. She smiled faintly. He could not reply, could not look away – in the part of his mind that knew it was a memory, he willed himself to speak to her this time, but nothing happened. Her focus shifted and she watched Vicious shooting, following the game until he had won and collected his money from his outmatched opponent. Vicious elbowed Spike, handing him a few thousand Woolongs. "We need drinks," he said, and Spike nodded, finally tearing his eyes away from the woman he would learn was Julia, to buy another bottle of wine.  
  
The scene seemed to fast-forward and he was standing, glass in hand, watching Julia shoot the nine into the corner pocket. She stood and beamed triumphantly at Vicious, extending a hand. Spike drew a roll of bills out of his pocket and began counting them off to pay her. "What are you, his bookkeeper?" she asked Spike, disarming him with the smile.  
  
"Hardly. I'm the one who's going to win this back from you," he replied, grinning back. "I'm sorry to tell you this, because you seem like a nice girl, but you've been had."  
  
She laughed out loud. "You're wrong on both accounts. And I won't play for an even wager. Let's up the stakes."  
  
He narrowed his eyes at her, still grinning. "I win, you have to come home with me. You win, you get to come home with me. How's that?"  
  
"Are you psychic?" she asked, cocking her head to the side. "If so, your antenna needs adjustment. I was thinking, when I beat you, you'd have to find me a place to stay here in Tharsis City for at least a week. By myself."  
  
Vicious couldn't hold back a short laugh. "Spike, you've been skewered," he said gleefully.  
  
Spike clapped a hand to his chest, grimacing. "How can you break my heart before I've even told you I love you?"  
  
Vicious snorted. "Subtle," he ribbed.  
  
Julia shot a sideways glance at the silver-haired man and then turned back to Spike. "Do we have a wager?"  
  
"What do I get if I win?" he asked. "We haven't established that yet. I want more than my money back."  
  
She smiled at him, almost pitying. "You won't win. But if you did, I'd give you your money back and a goodnight kiss to dream on."  
  
"Be careful what you wager," he replied. "You're on."  
  
He heard singing, out of place in the smoky bar, and realized he was sliding toward consciousness again. The dream-self tried to stop the progress, but the memory faded.  
  
He opened his eyes, still drifting and high from the painkillers. He didn't feel as cold, and realized most of his torso was now wrapped in bandages. As the room came into focus, he saw Julia lean forward, her book forgotten, looking down at him. The music had stopped.  
  
"Sing for me," he said with as much strength as he could muster. She knit her brows, confused. "Just like that," he urged, and the room swam and blurred when she began again.  
  
***  
  
She busied herself as best she could, when she was certain he had gone back to sleep. In a hospital, he would be on an IV, but here she had no way to get him food or water unless he was awake. She wondered if the Percocet had been a mistake.  
  
Every noise outside her window made her jump; cars stopping at the streetlight, the jingle of the bell on Holling's door, and the voices of pedestrians talking to one another all seemed to herald another shock of bad news, but the day stretched out into late afternoon with no interruptions. She was making a sandwich for herself when she heard Spike call out from the bedroom, and dropped the knife with a clatter, running to him.  
  
"Spike?" He looked like he had passed out again, but when she spoke he opened his eyes and tried to raise his head.  
  
"Julia... how long have I been here?"  
  
"Since last night. You came here about midnight. It's five o'clock now," she said, as she assessed the bandages. At least the bleeding had slowed, and his color seemed better.  
  
"Who knows I'm here?"  
  
"I spoke to Vicious. He told me you were dead last night. I was going to meet him when I found you."  
  
"Who else?"  
  
"From what he told me, I assume Mao knows. Probably Lin, and Mato, and Marcus and Lao as well."  
  
Spike shook his head and groaned. "I got shot just down the alley from the bakery. It was a mistake to come here."  
  
"Spike, don't say that. If you hadn't, you would have died. Thank god you made it here, thank god I hadn't left yet." She took his hand and he squeezed hers briefly in return.  
  
"I didn't take it seriously. Should have," he mumbled as his eyelids drooped.  
  
"Didn't take what seriously, Spike? Vicious won't tell me what's happening. He said he wouldn't be in contact for a few days. Please, let me get you something to eat, and you can tell me what you know. I'm scared."  
  
He rolled onto his right side with a grimace. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to scare you. When I saw where I was, I thought maybe you could help me. Thank you for helping me." She saw that he was trying to stand.  
  
"No." She put her hand firmly on his arm. "You're not going anywhere, and this is not your fault. Just help me understand what's going on."  
  
He let out a sigh. "I am hungry," he admitted in a weak voice. "I feel like something vacuumed out all my insides."  
  
"You've lost a lot of blood. It hurts, I know. Like everything's collapsing."  
  
His eyes met hers, worried. "You know what this feels like? What happened?"  
  
"Later, Spike," she said. "What do you think you could eat? You need something to get your strength up, help you replace all that blood."  
  
He tried raising his right hand to his face, and managed to finger the bandages over his cheeks and jaw. "Something soft. My head hurts."  
  
She smiled in spite of herself. "I'll see what I can find. Rest until I come back?"  
  
"Wait – where are you going?" His expression was as close to fear as she had ever seen it.  
  
"Just to the kitchen. You'll be able to hear me. I promise, I'll be right back." She stroked his hair back, running her fingers through it, until he closed his eyes again.  
  
***  
  
Julia sat on the edge of the bed, watching Spike slowly make his way through a plate of cheese and mushrooms. His left arm lay useless at his side, the damage to the shoulder muscles making it impossible to move. The food had helped; he'd managed to get through most of the story of the bank transfer and the warning from the mysterious man in the hat, and the call from Shin that took them to Rocket's warehouse.  
  
He groaned and handed the plate to her. "Thank you," he said, "but now I feel horrible. More awake, and more pain." She frowned as she stood.  
  
"I can get you another painkiller, if you promise to wake up again in a few hours," she offered.  
  
"No. Better to be alert. I'm worried that so many people know I'm here. And most of them know where you live," he added.  
  
"No one's called or come by all day," she replied.  
  
"What did Vicious say he was going to do?" He struggled to prop himself up a little higher.  
  
"He didn't. He just told me he couldn't contact me for a few days, and to contact him only if someone else called or came asking about you."  
  
"He knows everything I've told you. I hope he took it to Mao."  
  
"I assume he did. He said the only people I should take direction from were him, and Mao."  
  
As she took the plate to the kitchen, he called after her, "Do you have any cigarettes?"  
  
She stuck her head back in the doorway with a murderous glower. "You are not smoking."  
  
He looked sheepish. "I'm just getting a little jumpy. I'll stand at the window."  
  
"Like hell you will. May as well paint a target on the side of the building."  
  
He dropped his eyes. "I guess you have a point about that. Can't you grant a dying man a simple request?"  
  
She came back to sit beside him again, taking his face in both hands, ignoring him as he winced when they came into contact with the bruises and bandages. "You are not a dying man, not on my watch. If you're going to keep this up, I'll just put you out again."  
  
His eyes widened. "No disrespect intended to your efforts," he said in a rush. "I... it wasn't a funny joke. Never mind."  
  
She pulled him to her, blinking back the tears that formed and stroking his hair. "Not funny at all."  
  
The stabbing pain in his ribs and the dull ache through all his muscles seemed to fade as he pressed his face against her shoulder. He put his right arm around her, awkwardly, breathing deep and trying to memorize the moment. Before he could say anything else, they both heard her comm. buzz in the next room, and she let go abruptly, bolting to get it. He lay back on the pillow, whispering when he was sure she couldn't hear him, "I didn't know you cared." 


	15. The Taken Eye

XV. The Taken Eye  
  
Indecision gripped her when Julia saw Annie's shop number on the comm. screen. She knew she wasn't supposed to talk to anyone, but Annie would be beside herself with worry if she hadn't heard any news. While she wrestled with whether to answer, the call went to messaging.  
  
"Who was that?" Spike asked, his voice faint.  
  
"Annie." The message alert beeped, and she dialed as she returned to the bedroom so Spike could hear it as well.  
  
"Julia, honey," Annie began, her face neutral, "tell your patient there are no refunds on rent, so he'd better pull through. And if you need anything, call for a delivery. Just list what you want and I'll send a runner around to meet you at the bakery. That's all." The screen went blank.  
  
Spike nodded. "Good. I was afraid no one would tell her."  
  
"Me too. Mao wouldn't keep her in the dark, though." She eyed him critically; he had gone pale again, and his breathing was shallow. "How do you feel, really?"  
  
He closed his eyes. "Thin. Exhausted. I could keep whining, but it takes too much effort."  
  
"I prescribe another glass of water and another Percocet," she said gently. "Much as I like the company, you need to rest."  
  
"Where did you find that stuff?" he groaned. "No real pharmacies around here?"  
  
"Without a prescription or a trip downtown, it's the best you'll get."  
  
"I'm not complaining. Good dreams, so far." He was fading out again, and she helped him down another pill before he lost the last of his strength.  
  
"You'll be here?" he mumbled as she pulled the blankets higher.  
  
"Sleep," she replied, and he had nothing more to say.  
  
***  
  
He drifted again, trying to get back to that pool hall, but his mind had other plans. He was standing in his father's office, sixteen, the day he received his first assignment.  
  
"I have reservations about this," his father said, and Spike felt an ache seeing his face again, hearing him speak more clearly than he could recall in conscious thought. "I do not think you should put yourself in harm's way to prove your bravery. It is not in question."  
  
"We're just going out to talk trash. I can take care of myself," Spike replied, all bravado.  
  
"As I said, that is not in question." His father looked down at the school discharge papers on the blotter in front of him, and Spike braced himself, but no reprimand came. Instead, he went on, "I hope what you learned over the last four years will stay with you in the coming ones. The book lessons, and the life lessons."  
  
Spike nodded, mute.  
  
"Vicious is impetuous, from what I have seen, but he will not be a liability. I think you are well matched. Just don't turn your claws on one another when you have no one else to tussle with." His brown eyes sparkled. "Save that for the gym."  
  
"I don't fight with my friends," Spike said mildly. "We got along well enough at Mao's."  
  
His father rose and came around the desk to embrace him: a head taller, though Spike towered over every other boy his age. He wanted to say so many things now, he realized, but the time had passed and he could only think them while the memory blurred, fading into another scene.  
  
He and Vicious stood back to back, ringed by a circle of older street toughs. The metallic ringing sound of Vicious drawing his katana distracted him for a split second, long enough for someone to cuff him in the side of the head, and he saw black spots as he fell toward the sidewalk. He tucked and rolled, clipping another attacker with his heel as he extended a leg. He underestimated his opponents, though, and came up out of the roll into the barrel of a military-issue G19.  
  
Rough hands pulled his arms behind his back, wrenching his shoulders so he had no leverage. He saw Vicious squirm his way out of another hold, slashing with his sword, his face grim.  
  
"Run!" he shouted, and Vicious hesitated for a split second. "NOW!"  
  
He looked around, confused – there were at least a dozen White Tigers in the street, but none of them pursued Vicious. He was about to ask what they wanted when the butt of a gun connected with the base of his skull, and then he was spiraling down, forward through time again.  
  
That small, conscious part of his brain rebelled with all its strength; he did not want to go where this was headed next. Voices, low, the pinch of a needle in his arm, a cold rush through his muscles as they stopped obeying his attempts to struggle... and then the harsh white glow of a medical spotlight.  
  
"Spike Spiegel." He tried to turn, see who was speaking, but the light was too bright and his head seemed to be in a vise – no chance of movement between the drug and the restraint.  
  
"Prodigal son of the right-hand man to Mao Yenrai. A Dragon whelp."  
  
He let the inertia take over, willing his face to relax, trying not to respond to the identification. He'd been away four years, never been involved in Syndicate business – but to acknowledge they were correct went against everything he had been taught all his life.  
  
"There is no point in denying your identity. Your DNA betrays you. And you will betray your own blood if you want your life."  
  
He closed his eyes, exhaling, settling in for the wait. These men were no different than the bullies from school, thinking they could use pain to make him submit to their will. He did not have his lightning reflexes or surprising strength here, but he had years of training and a haughty disdain for any attempt to rule him by force.  
  
"Tell me the address of the home where you eat meals with Mao Yenrai."  
  
When he looked into the harsh light again, a metal instrument appeared in his field of vision, descending toward his right eye. He tried to flinch, but it was as though his body belonged to someone else; only the muscles of his eye worked, rolling frantically to avoid the apparatus.  
  
"Your death is a long way off on the horizon yet, Spike Spiegel. If you are bound to get there, you will have to endure the ride." Mechanical whirring – hands in surgical gloves – blinking sent a shooting pain through his eyelids where they were pinned open.  
  
"For what you hoped to see, we will take your spying eye."  
  
With every ounce of strength and concentration, he willed himself to cry out; he could not go through the wrenching pain, the horrible sounds, the disorienting flashes when his optic nerve stopped receiving a signal...  
  
And he sucked in a desperate gulp of air, snapping awake, seeing the ceiling above him with a bar of faint light that made its way through the curtains, his heart pounding until he thought he would vomit.  
  
"Oh, god." He breathed through his nose, swallowing hard.  
  
"Spike?" Julia stumbled in the dark of the living room, and then her blurry shadow appeared in the doorway. "What happened?"  
  
He tried a few times before finding his voice. "Bad dream."  
  
She came to sit beside him, turning on the bedside lamp. Even in its faintly yellow light, he looked ashen, his eyes wild, sweat beading on his forehead. He stretched his arm out and she took his hand, watching him but unsure what to say.  
  
"No more drugs," he croaked out.  
  
"Okay..." she moved from the chair to the edge of the bed, putting her other hand on his forehead. "Do you remember what it was about?"  
  
"Too well."  
  
"Do you want to tell me about it? My mother used to make me tell her my bad dreams, so I could hear how impossible they sounded aloud."  
  
He managed a wry smile. "This one really happened, but I've been telling myself it was a dream ever since."  
  
The look of concern on her face marred her features, and Spike sighed, wondering if she might be right.  
  
"Hey," he said softly, "Get me a glass of water, and I'll try it your way."  
  
When she returned, he had managed to prop himself up on his right elbow, and she helped him adjust the pillows so he could look at her without moving his head. "How long have I been out?" he asked.  
  
"It's almost morning. A good twelve hours, at least."  
  
"Huh. It always bothers me, how I think I started dreaming the second I went to sleep, but the time never matches up." He rubbed his eyes and winced.  
  
"My right eye is a fake," he began.  
  
"I figured that out just in time to keep from slugging you," she replied. He gave her a puzzled look, and she went on after a deep breath of her own. "I had to cut you out of your clothes in the bathtub, and at one point, I thought you were playing dead on me. Your eye looked right at me."  
  
He chuckled, much to her relief. "I've heard it does that. Sorry."  
  
"Don't let me interrupt. Your right eye is a fake." She settled back on her elbows so they lay opposite one another, and waited for him to go on.  
  
"Vicious and I were – wait, back up." He looked at her closely. "Did Vicious ever tell you about my father?"  
  
"No. But I know who he was. Mao told me they were partners."  
  
"Okay, I'll skip ahead. I went to school on Jupiter from the time I was twelve until I was sixteen. When I came home, Mao partnered me with Vicious."  
  
She raised her eyebrows. "You were sixteen? How old was he?"  
  
"About the same, I guess. I've never asked him, but I think he's close to my age. He showed up and started running errands for Mao about a month before I came home from school.  
  
"Anyway, I wanted to follow in my father's footsteps, so to speak, when I came back. So Mao paired me up with Vicious and, since neither of us was publicly associated with the Red Dragon yet, he had us go out to try and infiltrate the White Tiger street gang. We probably had a week in on the job, living in a rented apartment down on Alacrois street, when a White Tiger team ambushed us. Not the kids we'd been talking to, either."  
  
Julia did her best to keep her expression neutral, though the threads of his story and Vicious' began to come together in her mind.  
  
"They captured me, and Vicious got loose and I told him to run. But when he did, no one followed him. Next thing I knew I was in some kind of doctor's office."  
  
He stopped, looking up at the ceiling. "Spike?" Julia prompted, shifting to sit a bit higher. "Stay with me."  
  
"Sorry. They... they knew who I was, who my father was. They asked me questions, and I ignored them, and they took my eye. That's what I was dreaming about when I woke up."  
  
She sat up and wrapped her elbows around her knees. "They 'took' it?"  
  
He made a claw with his right hand and held it up, trying to smile. "Plucked it right out."  
  
"Oh, god," she said, and brought her hand up to her mouth, feeling sick.  
  
"Vicious went to Mao, and Mao sent a team to pick me up. But he sent Vicious along to kill me if I had talked."  
  
She swallowed, eyeing him carefully. The parallels to Vicious' story bordered on disturbing. "You're still here."  
  
"I didn't talk. He took me out alive himself, after he was convinced of it. And so began our life of crime." He took a deep breath, wincing and reaching for the bandages on his left side.  
  
"Did Vicious ever tell you about his father?" Julia bit her lip.  
  
Spike frowned. "What do you mean?"  
  
"His father. Before he joined the Syndicate."  
  
"No. Did he tell you my dad took him in?"  
  
Her eyes widened. "No." She let the idea sink in. "After... your eye?"  
  
"Yeah. I think he said, 'You have brought me back my son, so I will be your father.'" He scoffed, staring up at the ceiling again.  
  
"You make it sound like a bad experience."  
  
"It wasn't, at the time. But Vicious always said I owed him my life. When my father died, I realized we were even. I'd shared him, in the last months of his life, with Vicious."  
  
"He never told me that. Neither did Mao."  
  
Spike shrugged with his uninjured shoulder. "It was April when I got the cyber eye, and it was July when he died. Long enough for Vicious to get serious about the Syndicate, though."  
  
"You've been partners for, what, five years? Six years?"  
  
"Almost seven." He looked down. "But the two after Dad died, I didn't really have my head in the game. Doohan gave me the Swordfish for my sixteenth birthday."  
  
She nodded. "Annie told me you used to race."  
  
"I just wanted to die. Go out in a three-G tailspin." He met her eyes and stopped when he saw her expression. "It's all in the past. It's not important now."  
  
She rubbed a hand over her face. "Of course it is."  
  
"No matter what I did, I kept winning and not dying. Eventually, it got old. I came back, and Vicious petitioned to keep me as his partner, even though plenty of others had surpassed me in favor with the Van during that time. And then he told me he owed him again." He slumped, sighing. "I'm worn out."  
  
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have kept you up." An awkward silence stretched out between them.  
  
"I'm glad you did. You were right, I feel better for having talked about it. Not that it makes it any less awful."  
  
She watched him for a moment. "You should try to go back to sleep."  
  
"Actually, I need to try and get up." He groaned and rolled onto his right side, instantly breaking out into a sweat.  
  
"Whatever you need, I can get it for you." She put a hand on his shoulder, but he shook his head.  
  
"Bathroom," he replied. "Gonna have to do it myself."  
  
She blushed, though he didn't notice. "Let me help you get in there, at least."  
  
He tugged ineffectively at the blankets, and then looked up at her wide- eyed. "What am I wearing?"  
  
"A towel. At least you were when I brought you in here," she replied, and felt a little guilty. "I can find you a pair of pants, but you'll probably need help getting them on."  
  
He lay back and groaned. "I had successfully blocked the mental image of you cutting me out of my clothes until just now."  
  
She rummaged in the dresser and finally came up with a pair of Vicious' sweats. "Here," she said, "I'm sorry. I really didn't have a choice."  
  
He smiled back at her. "I know. It's just that none of my fantasies about you undressing me included my being unconscious at the time."  
  
She stood staring at him.  
  
"That was a joke." He tried to broaden the smile.  
  
"No it wasn't." She laughed, in spite of herself. "Okay, it was funny, I'll give you that."  
  
"Good. Now turn around." She obeyed, and after a few moments' struggle, he was still.  
  
"All right."  
  
She turned back to find him sitting up on the edge of the bed, pale again. "Are you sure you can do this?"  
  
He nodded, too winded to speak, and she braced herself to carry his weight, but he managed to stand, using her shoulder only to balance. He looked down at her and smiled. "You take good care of me. I'm going to owe you." 


	16. Retrieval

A/N: Please heed the rating from here on in, if you've been thinking I haven't earned it yet....  
  
***  
  
XVI. Retrieval  
  
Late morning sun streamed in through the plate glass windows of Mao's office, and Vicious had to squint to make out his mentor's features. They were alone in the room; Mao had sent the guards outside and ordered them to prevent anyone from entering until they were recalled. He made no attempt at the usual pleasantries before he sat down in his chair.  
  
He cleared his throat and began. "Ichido has reviewed the records related to Spike's account. The money he received was funneled from a number of other Dragon holdings; it does not have its origin in any one place. Moreover, the transactions appear to have been triggered by a computer program, and as such, we have not yet been able to identify who initiated them." Vicious opened his mouth to speak, but Mao silenced him with a wave of his hand. "He must not remain in Tharsis City. The most disturbing discovery I've made today is that the financial evidence suggests no outside involvement at all – the White Tiger clan did not provide the money for the payment."  
  
Vicious closed his eyes, searching his memory for what Spike had said about the messenger in the alley. "Spike did not see the face of the man who contacted him," he said to himself. "But it would be unlike him not to recognize the voice or posture of someone he had met before."  
  
"I need to speak with him," Mao replied. "Not over a communication channel, and not here. He needs to be moved from Julia's immediately. The records of your purchase of that apartment are available to anyone with financial access. Even if his whereabouts are mostly unknown – and I regret that we have not kept a tighter lid on that information – it will only be a matter of time before the location becomes a target."  
  
Vicious took out his comm.; Mao looked concerned, but waited. Only seconds passed before Julia answered, her face pale and weary. "Vicious?"  
  
"Julia, you need to leave your apartment immediately. Can your patient be moved?"  
  
She frowned, irritation and worry clear in her eyes. "He's been up, but it wasn't good for him. He's been sleeping for five hours, ever since."  
  
"I want you to come to the tower at once." Vicious knew he was asking too much, but also knew that Mao would not allow him to provide any more detail. "We will come to collect the ward."  
  
Mao nodded in silent agreement, listening closely to Julia's reply. "I can't leave without saying anything, or whoever shows up here might end up dead," she said, her voice tight. "But I'll try to leave as soon as I can."  
  
"Listen to me carefully. Do it now. Wake him if you feel it's best, but waste no time. This call was a risk I did not want to take." Vicious looked across the desk. "Do you have anything to add?"  
  
"He will be in good hands, Julia." Mao motioned for Vicious to keep the comm. aimed at himself.  
  
"He is in good hands," she shot back. "I'll see you soon." She disconnected, and Vicious let out a sigh.  
  
"Who do we send to get him?" he muttered.  
  
"We go ourselves," Mao replied, standing. "Take your zipcraft. I'll drive. Someone will need to meet Julia here when she arrives."  
  
"Marcus was in the library when you summoned me. I will instruct him to wait in the lobby for her." Vicious rose as well, giving Mao a long look before he turned to go.  
  
"No one else," Mao cautioned, and Vicious raised a hand in acknowledgement as he opened the door and nodded to the guards.  
  
***  
  
Julia looked in at the sleeping man in her bed, but couldn't bring herself to wake him yet. Instead, she roamed the apartment, gathering his things that she'd salvaged from his coat pockets and putting them all in a duffel bag. With that done, she made another plate of cheese and vegetables, added a hard-boiled egg, and filled a glass of water, carrying the food in to the bedside table.  
  
She sat down on the bed and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Spike? You need to wake up."  
  
He sighed and turned his head, but did not reply.  
  
"I have to leave. Vicious is coming to get you."  
  
His eyes snapped open and she could see he was trying to re-orient himself. "What do you mean, he's coming to get me?"  
  
"We have to leave. He just called and told me to get out right away. He said they'd come to pick you up and told me not to wait." She fought to keep the fear from her voice.  
  
He took her hand. "I'll go with you. Please."  
  
"I'm sorry," she whispered, trying to come up with a reason to deny him, "I don't know anything, they wouldn't say anything over the comm. Mao and Vicious were the only ones on the line. They must have their reasons." She squeezed his fingers. "I brought you more food and water. You should eat before they get here, or you won't be able to go with them."  
  
He nodded, but would not let go of her hand as he summoned all of his strength and sat up. It brought him inches from her face, and he stared into her eyes; she found it disorienting to hold his gaze for too long. The mismatched colors, and the reason for them, brought back a flood of sympathy and concern, and she reached to put her arm around his waist.  
  
He stiffened and she heard him suck in a breath at the pain. "Julia," he whispered, not letting her look away. "They're going to kill me."  
  
"No." She spat the word out before she'd even thought it through. "You're living in the past. I trust Mao to bring you in safe."  
  
"Why else would they call you away first?" His expression was unreadable. "He sent Vicious to kill me once before. What if they've decided I betrayed the Syndicate for the money?"  
  
"You didn't, did you?" She searched his face.  
  
"Of course not. But I know how it looks." He finally dropped his gaze, examining her fingers in his own. "And I know how this sounds."  
  
"We have to trust them. That's what my whole life here in Tharsis City has been – learning to trust you, and Vicious, and Mao, and the rest of the family to look after me when I was too lost to look after myself."  
  
He exhaled slowly, looking at her again as he released her hand to brush the hair back from her eyes. She sat frozen while he moved, and before she realized it was happening, he had leaned in to her, his breath warm on her face, mouth barely touching hers. He waited there for her response, and to her own surprise, she returned the kiss, gentle because of his parched skin but thrilled all the same. He breathed in, tasting her, hesitant with his tongue but still asking; she answered by parting her lips and cradling the back of his head in her hand. Fear and guilt clamored to break through, but she pushed them back, too in awe of the rush of warmth and tenderness she felt to let it be spoiled.  
  
He pulled back after too brief a moment and would not look up. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I just – when I saw you standing in the doorway after I was shot, the last thing I remember thinking was that I had never kissed you, and I was going to die. It was wrong of me to do it now."  
  
A sob built up in her chest, and to stop it, she kissed him again, though he fought his body's response. She sat back and took his chin in her hand, forcing him to look at her. "You owe me no apology."  
  
He nodded. "Thank you. Now go. You don't want to be here for this."  
  
She hesitated. "Go on," he urged. "But bring me my gun."  
  
Her eyes widened, but before she could say what she was thinking, he shook his head. "Not like that. I'm going to go down shooting, though."  
  
"In the bag," she said, lifting the duffel onto the mattress beside him. "With your comm. and your wallet." She bit her lip, but no words seemed right for parting.  
  
"Remember me," he replied, and took the Jericho out, checking that it was still loaded. "Julia, go."  
  
She stood and obeyed, though every fiber of her being screamed that it was a mistake.  
  
***  
  
After he heard the front door close and lock, Spike flexed his muscles, trying out his left arm, pleased to find he could at least move it, although it did not obey quickly or reliably. He drew his knees up, letting out a sharp gasp at the way the graze on his hip stung, but it was just a cut – nothing he could not ignore. He forced himself to sit up with his feet on the floor and tested the left arm further, using it to drink the water she'd brought and jam a few morsels of food into his mouth before nausea welled up. He breathed slowly until it passed and choked down the hard-boiled egg in one gulp, coughing and blinking the bright spots out of his vision at the searing pain in his ribs.  
  
He checked the Jericho again, flicking off the safety and racking the slide with his weak left hand. "What do I owe you now, Vicious?" he asked the room. Minutes passed with no sound save the noise of the street below, and he realized he was using up strength he might need, so he settled back under the blankets, the gun flush with his thigh beneath them, alert to every current of air and shifting tone around him.  
  
He'd heard nothing in the hall outside, but the thud and the sound of wood and metal wrenching came only a few minutes later. The front door swung around and banged against the coat rack. Footsteps followed, but no speech – he heard two men pacing the apartment, one of them checking the bathroom. He squeezed the trigger until he felt the familiar pressure of a hair's breadth from firing and opened his eyes when the footsteps approached the bedroom door.  
  
Spike did not recognize the man who stood there; he was blond, Nordic, his hair cropped, wearing a sweater and jeans. He held a pistol, but clearly had not expected his target to be awake, because his eyes widened when he saw Spike looking directly at him. He registered no more than a shift of the blankets before a bullet tore through the top of his skull, and with his right eye Spike noted the swirling bits of thread and down feathers blown out by the gun's report.  
  
The second figure appeared in the doorway, a much larger-caliber weapon trained on him in the bed, but Spike was ready – though his aim was slightly off, and this time he saw his attacker's neck explode with the impact at the same time the mattress beside him burst in a shower of feathers and foam. He checked to make certain he had not been hit and then rolled into a crouch behind the bed frame, listening for more footsteps, but none came.  
  
After a few minutes had passed, he reached up and dragged the duffel down to the floor with him, digging out his comm. Vicious answered at the console of his ship. "What are you doing contacting me?" he barked.  
  
"Your retrieval party is dead," he snapped back.  
  
"What in hell are you talking about?" Vicious looked between the comm. and his flight path, his expression furious.  
  
"Your little party crashers. Julia must not have told you I'd been awake." But the seeds of doubt formed in his mind even as he spoke.  
  
"I'm on my way to pick you up myself. If you can move, be ready. We will discuss this face to face." Vicious disconnected.  
  
Spike leaned against the ruined mattress, panting, sick from the adrenaline surge and confused. Less than a minute went by before the whine of a zipcraft filtered in through the window, and the floor shuddered as it landed on the roof. He clenched his teeth, using the pain in his jaw to help stay awake, and checked his clip – nine rounds left.  
  
Through the open front door, he could hear the fire escape alarm buzz and then stop. Vicious' familiar footfall crossed the living room; Spike knew he would be wary and alert, and that the bodies would give him pause. When he heard a floorboard creak outside the bathroom, he peered over the top of the bed and rested the gun on the edge of it, trained on the doorway.  
  
"Spike." Vicious' voice was flat, barely loud enough to hear. "It's me. I'm coming in."  
  
Spike cocked the Jericho in response.  
  
"Mao is on his way up," Vicious went on, still in the hallway. "We've come to get you out of here. I apologize for being late."  
  
"Apology not accepted," Spike snarled, but he shifted so he could see a little more clearly over his makeshift blind. "If you're coming in, do it without your weapon."  
  
He heard the ring-and-thud of the katana being set carefully on the hardwood floor, and then two hands appeared in the doorway. Vicious sidestepped across the opening, ready to duck, and met Spike's eyes. He ignored the gun. "Why would you think we were coming to kill you?"  
  
"I've been dreaming about you," Spike replied. "Trying to figure out why you left me for dead. Then I started thinking maybe you wanted me dead."  
  
Vicious kept his hands high as he crossed to sit in the chair Julia brought in. He regarded Spike across the bed, his face a mixture of confusion and concern. "You really have lost a lot of blood," he said conversationally.  
  
"Damn it, don't patronize me. Why did you call for Julia and leave me here? Did you really think those two punks would be able to get rid of me?"  
  
"I have no idea who these two are, but they don't look like the types I'd send to deal with you. And I didn't send them. Mao got information –"  
  
They both froze at the sound of footsteps in the living room, but neither moved until Mao entered the room. Spike targeted him with a twist of the wrist, but hesitated, and the older man immediately raised his hands in the air as well.  
  
"Spike, we wanted to get here before this happened," Mao said. "We're here to move you. No one but Vicious and myself will know your location. I needed to speak with you before you went, though."  
  
Spike relaxed his grip on his gun and lowered his aim, though he did not let go of it or change position behind the bed. "I have a better idea. Take me to the Swordfish, and I'll go where no one but me knows my location."  
  
"You know the ship can be tracked," Vicious replied.  
  
"I'm not staying with it," Spike snapped. "But I can outrun anyone stupid enough to follow me."  
  
Mao took a deep breath and came around the end of the bed to Spike's side. He knelt on the floor and extended a hand. "Put the gun down, please. We came to help. You need to know what I've learned."  
  
Spike let the gun drop to his lap, but made no move to give it up. "I'm getting really sick of people trying to kill me and not getting the job done," he said in a low growl. "I'm too tired for this shit. So if that's your plan, just do it." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the bed.  
  
Mao crossed to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Keep your weapon, if it makes you feel safer. But let me help you get up to the roof, and Vicious will take you to our next meeting point. I'll join you there."  
  
For a long moment, no one moved or breathed; finally, Spike let out a weak sigh and nodded, and Mao took his hand to draw him up onto his feet.  
  
They made their way out of the apartment; as Spike stepped over the two bodies in the doorway and took in the blood spatter and gore, he said to Mao, "Have somebody clean this up, or Julia will kill me herself if I live out the week."  
  
Mao chuckled. "Julia won't be back for a while."  
  
Spike stopped short. "What does that mean?"  
  
"Keep moving," Mao replied. "We wanted you both out because the person – or perhaps people – who targeted you have access to the Red Dragon financial records. Vicious' ownership of the apartment would have been easy to trace. We have not been able to verify that any contact or money came from the White Tiger syndicate."  
  
They ascended the fire escape in silence. Spike struggled to stay conscious; the bright noon sunlight made his head pound, and the climb into Vicious' ship abused every injury on his body.  
  
When they were in the air, Spike let himself drift, thinking that piloting his own ship might be more of an effort than he was ready to make. Vicious did not let him fade out, though. "I had to get Lin and Marcus out," he said over his shoulder. "I should have known you would not fall so easily."  
  
Spike frowned. "By my count, you owe me now," he replied.  
  
Vicious nodded, but said no more. 


	17. Paranoia

XVII. Paranoia  
  
Julia put the convertible in reverse and backed out of the alley without a glance in the rear-view mirror. Her head spun – she didn't know where to begin sorting through what had just happened. She wanted desperately to go back and stay with Spike until Vicious and Mao arrived, but she knew better than to go against Mao's direction – and Vicious didn't answer his comm. Though it took less than ten minutes, the drive to the tower seemed interminable.  
  
She swept through the front doors and looked around the lobby, spotting Marcus near the elevator. He strode toward her, his expression grim.  
  
"Vicious asked me to meet you. He's gone with Mao." He gestured for her to follow and led her down the hallway into his office in the financial wing.  
  
"Have you heard from them since they left?" she asked, trying to keep the panic from her voice.  
  
He shook his head and said nothing until they were out of the hall with his door shut.  
  
"I have no idea where they plan to go. You're to stay here at the tower until we get further instructions." He sat at his desk and nodded to the chair across from him. "It's hard to say, at this point, when that might be."  
  
She wanted to share her fears with someone, but Marcus was treating her too formally and seemed strangely unconcerned. She frowned. "Vicious and Mao are keeping me out of the loop. I think I'm entitled to whatever you can tell me."  
  
Marcus smiled. "We know what we need to," he said lightly.  
  
"Hardly," she scoffed. "For one thing, I don't understand why Vicious thought I might be a target."  
  
"You aren't," he replied, and then seemed to think better of it. "Or, I should say, we don't think you are. It was Vicious' ownership of the apartment that raised the concern. That, and the fact that too many people knew where Spike was."  
  
"Who knew?" She couldn't think of anyone, besides their core group and Holling.  
  
He spread his hands. "Well, Mao told Annie, which I don't think he should have."  
  
"That's ridiculous. It would have been worse if she hadn't known. And she's hardly unreliable."  
  
"That might be true," he allowed, "but all she needed to know was that he was safe and alive."  
  
"Which he may or may not be," she said with a sigh.  
  
Marcus leaned forward and fixed her with a stare. "What do you mean by that?" he asked.  
  
"Obviously if they're moving him, they think he's been targeted." She watched him closely in return.  
  
He didn't reply; instead, he stood and paced to the window, looking out at the activity on the street. Just as the silence became unbearable, his comm. buzzed, and he fumbled for it as Julia leaned forward in her chair.  
  
He hit the answer button and Mao's voice rang clear in the empty room. "There was an ambush at Julia's apartment." She covered her mouth to stifle a gasp and stood; Marcus held up a hand for her to stay back while Mao went on. "Our patient killed two men here. We need someone to come out and clean up and try to identify them. I'm coming back to get his zipcraft. Has Julia gotten to the tower yet?"  
  
"She's here," Marcus replied, his face drawn tight in a scowl, and handed the comm. to her.  
  
She took it reluctantly, heart hammering in her ears. Mao tried to smile when she came into view, but gave up when he saw her expression. "Julia, we'll get this taken care of. Marcus will set you up at the tower until we do."  
  
"Damn it, Mao, stop treating me like I'm not involved. It's my apartment. I found him. I took care of him." She bit her lip hard to stop the tears that threatened.  
  
He sighed. "I'll be back this evening, and we'll discuss the entire thing. Be patient for a few more hours."  
  
"Tell me he's all right." Her knuckles whitened around the handset.  
  
"They're both fine," Mao replied, his expression softening.  
  
She handed the comm. to Marcus and sat back, reeling. Whoever attacked Spike, they'd either barely missed her, or they'd waited for her to go. After a hushed exchange, Marcus set the comm. on the desk and came around to sit in the chair beside her. "Did you see anyone when you left your apartment?" he asked.  
  
"No. But I wasn't looking, really. I was pretty shaken up." She shivered a little, remembering both the terror of the drive to the tower, and the strange thrill of Spike's kiss. "Do you think someone was watching my house?"  
  
"Probably," he said, his tone dismissive when she had no information for him. "Let's get you a flat key. I need to make arrangements for your apartment to be cleaned." He looked extremely unhappy with the task.  
  
***  
  
Spike realized with a start that he had drifted off while they flew; the harness of the jump seat dug into his ribs, and rather than the dull ache he'd become accustomed to, the gunshot wound now radiated a hot, sharp pain. His mouth felt full of sand as he tried to speak above the roar of the engine.  
  
"Got any water?" he finally managed.  
  
Vicious turned in his seat, surprised, and shook his head. "We'll be landing in a few minutes, though."  
  
Spike pulled the collar of the coat Mao had lent him up around his ears and shivered. "Please tell me they have cigarettes and sweaters where we're going."  
  
Vicious pointed off the starboard thruster as he maneuvered into a descent, and Spike felt a wave of relief. Beyond the wing, he could see the familiar shape of the Alva City freeway, and the craggy skyline reminiscent of the pictures of Seattle on Earth before the gate accident. Alva was an infrequent destination in his travels, but a metropolis on par with Tharsis, and it had its own Syndicates and skirmishes that rarely intersected with his daily life. They would be relatively anonymous here.  
  
"Is Mao coming?" Every effort to speak made the pain worse, but he didn't want to pass out again.  
  
Vicious nodded. "Behind us. He caught up about twenty minutes ago."  
  
Spike knew better than to try and turn to see. He felt disoriented more by the lapses in time than the change in location, and tried to tally up the days, wondering if it had really been only two since the fight.  
  
They circled a cluster of high-rises and landed in a parking lot overlooking the bay, under the shadow of the skytrain. Vicious shouldered the duffel from Julia's and offered a hand to help Spike; he wanted to refuse, but found he could barely unbuckle the harness, let alone make it down the narrow stair unaided. For the first time, Vicious looked his partner over fully, and frowned.  
  
"You should have gone to a hospital," he said.  
  
Spike raised an eyebrow. "I didn't have a plan in mind. Didn't know where I was until Julia walked out her door. I would have died on the sidewalk if her timing hadn't been so good."  
  
"I know," Vicious said, looking over Spike's shoulder. "Your luck is the subject of legend. There's Mao."  
  
Spike turned and saw the Swordfish descending, rather too quickly, toward them. "Shit," he burst out, "I didn't even know Mao could fly."  
  
They both shielded their eyes as the craft thumped to the ground and skidded, tires protesting, to a halt about thirty yards away. Vicious chuckled. "You asked for the Swordfish. No other way to get it to you, I am afraid."  
  
Mao walked to join them, and handed Spike the key to his ship. "I will be happy if I never see the inside of that thing again," he said, obviously shaken. "Give me gravity and a transmission any day."  
  
Spike gave him a rueful smile. "I share your sentiment - about you never seeing the inside of her again. But thank you for bringing her anyway."  
  
Mao led them to the shortest of the apartment buildings, produced a keycard, and let them into the lobby; Spike concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and thought idly that he loved no modern invention more than the elevator, which opened immediately. He leaned against the wall during the ascent, gathering the last of his strength. Their destination was directly across from the elevators: an expansive suite, sparsely furnished, with a view of the skytrain and the lot below.  
  
Spike collapsed on the couch, fading again, but Vicious brought him a bottle of water from the refrigerator and he drew himself up, murmuring a "thank you" before he downed half of it in one long draught. Mao took the armchair opposite him and produced a pack of Marlboros and his gold lighter.  
  
"If you had a shirt for me, I'd kiss you," Spike said with a chuckle.  
  
Mao let out a booming laugh in return and stood. "I won't hold you to that, but I brought you the suit that was delivered to the tower." He snapped open his briefcase. "I'm afraid I had to fold it, but it seems to have survived."  
  
Spike smiled to himself. "Second most important thing on my list," he said, and lit a cigarette, taking a long drag and leaning back on the couch again. "Actually, the most important thing on my list is finding out what you two know."  
  
Mao nodded and hung the suit in the closet before returning to his chair. "I wanted to ask you about the man who contacted you."  
  
"Shin?" Spike frowned.  
  
"No. The man who contacted you about the money transfer."  
  
"No one I recognized. He said he was a representative of the White Tiger, but I didn't get a look at his face, and I didn't really take it seriously at the time."  
  
Mao nodded. "The transfer was made from Red Dragon holdings – several of them. It was the work of a hacker of some kind, but a hacker with intimate knowledge of the Dragon's system. There would be no other way to be certain the money went to you."  
  
"So someone inside the Dragon is dirty, which is pretty much what he suggested."  
  
"That part of what he said is true, without question. But I question whether there was any involvement on the part of the other Syndicate. No new money came in to support the distribution to you." Mao lit a cigarette for himself.  
  
Spike considered it. "Unless it had gone in over a period of time beforehand."  
  
"I thought of that, as did Ichido. We went back as far as three months, well beyond when the agreement was proposed and accepted. Ichido can account for everything."  
  
"If he can account for everything, why can't he figure out who sent me the money?" Spike stretched out on the couch, wincing as he tried to find a position that did not put pressure on his ribs and shoulder.  
  
"As I said, the work of a hacker. Thousands of small transactions between internal accounts, adding up to the increase in your balance. Until we can find the program, and determine when and how it was uploaded to the system, the identity of the hacker is impossible to know."  
  
"Unless we can identify the man who contacted you first," Vicious interjected.  
  
Spike closed his eyes. "One of the men at the apartment this morning was about the same height and build. The guy with the Beretta. But there's no way I could say for certain he was the same person. I didn't let him talk."  
  
"Nothing to go on," Vicious said with a growl.  
  
"I could really use some food," Spike groaned. "I can barely think right now."  
  
Mao looked up at Vicious. "Can you find us something? I would ask someone else, but we're short-staffed."  
  
Vicious hesitated. He did not want to miss the discussion, and once again the nagging worry about Spike or Julia having spoken to him about Henshai's and the Ganymede trip rose in his mind. But there was no way to decline without raising other suspicions, so he pulled on his coat. "Any requests?" he asked Spike.  
  
"Red meat," Spike mumbled. "Coffee. Morphine."  
  
Mao chuckled. "Steaks. We'll withhold the morphine until our discussion is over, but see what you can find. Across the street, there's a shop with a green awning. Ask for Arthur and mention me."  
  
Mao turned back to Spike when the door closed. "Can you stay awake while he's out? We should discuss a few things between us."  
  
"I'll try. I've been asleep for so long I hate the idea of doing it any more." He shifted on the couch again so he could see the old man better.  
  
Mao took a deep breath. "I realize what our visit to Julia's must have seemed like this morning."  
  
"Bad deja vu is what it seemed like," Spike replied. "At least I was ready for it."  
  
"You know that we did not order the attack."  
  
Spike didn't answer at first, trying to choose his words. "I don't know that, no. I want to believe it. But Vicious did not travel with you to the apartment."  
  
"Your distrust of him disturbs me greatly."  
  
"Me too." Spike closed his eyes. "But I hope you can understand where it comes from."  
  
Mao lit another cigarette and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I do. But I also know he is not behind this."  
  
Spike raised an eyebrow. "You know it, or you believe it?"  
  
"I would say I know it." Mao sat back again. "I feared that putting you and Vicious in equal positions would stir the competitive undercurrent of your relationship. I did not expect it to breed this paranoia, though."  
  
"I am not paranoid, and this has nothing to do with competition," Spike said with a groan. "How can you call me paranoid when you saw the bodies at Julia's with your own eyes?"  
  
"Your fear for your life is justified, but your suspicion that Vicious is involved is paranoia," Mao said, but his tone was kind. "We made a call to Julia that I do not think we should have. Vicious did not want all of us to travel together, and so he called her out first. Frankly, the timing of the ambush suggests her apartment was under surveillance the entire time you were there."  
  
"Or that the comm. connection is compromised," Spike mused. "The only other call I remember Julia getting was a message from Annie. Nothing happened after that."  
  
"Perhaps a red herring is in order," Mao replied. "We'll find you a place to stay here, and then cast some bait. Different locations to different people, and see who comes looking for you."  
  
"If it's all the same to you, I have a place to stay here. I'd like it best if I just went there and checked in after a few days." Spike sat up again, gingerly, fighting the fog that clouded his vision.  
  
Mao looked surprised. "I did not know you had contacts in Alva City."  
  
"No one from the Syndicate. Someone you know, perhaps, but I doubt it. An old friend of my father's."  
  
A shadow passed over Mao's face, and he fell silent for a few moments. When he looked up at Spike again, the younger man had listed to one side, eyes drooping. "Spike," he said softly, "I think we're almost finished here, but you should stay awake for your meal."  
  
A knock at the door made them both jump; it was Vicious, his timing impeccable. He carried in a paper bag, trailing behind an irresistible aroma of skirt steak with Mexican seasonings. Spike blinked hard and smiled at him. "You've saved me," he said.  
  
"Would that I had," he replied. He continued unloading the bag, handing Spike a pack of cigarettes and a cup of coffee.  
  
"Apology accepted," he said as he took the cup. Neither young man saw Mao's faint smile at the exchange. 


	18. Process of Elimination

XVIII. Process of Elimination  
  
Mao followed Vicious back across the street to the parking lot, lost in his own thoughts. He waited until they had taken off and cleared the buffeting currents of the surface winds to pose the question he'd been puzzling over.  
  
"We have been going about this all wrong," he said, and Vicious looked up from the console. "We've wasted two days asking which Syndicate is behind the attack, but we should have asked why Spike is the target. Unfortunately, he asked that question of himself, and came up with the answer that you must be responsible."  
  
Vicious keyed in the autopilot sequence to take them back to Tharsis City before turning to face the older man. "That was obvious at Julia's apartment. He thinks it because he thinks I left him behind to die. Until we identify who is responsible, he will continue to believe it."  
  
"Then we must begin with the question of motive. Do you have one?"  
  
"Don't be absurd," Vicious snapped, his face darkening to a scowl.  
  
Mao raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.  
  
"We solve our disagreements like men," Vicious went on, a little less angry. "He knows full well if I had a score to settle with him, I would face him myself."  
  
"Very well, then. Who has a score to settle with him?"  
  
Vicious turned back to the horizon. "I have asked myself that question. My theory will sound arrogant."  
  
Mao laughed. "You may be arrogant in my presence, if only to get it out of your system before you have to speak to the Van again."  
  
"I mean no disrespect to you or to your son, Mao," he began, "but it's widely held that Spike and I will succeed you as the public leaders of the Red Dragon. These recent attempts to breed harmony between families that have been at war for fifty years do not sit well with most of the White Tigers, any more than with me. The Van sent us out to be the face of this new agreement, and I would seek to cut down any White Tiger in my position, if the positions were reversed."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"If the future leadership of the clan participates in an unpopular political movement, their elimination has a strong chance of breeding opposition to that movement. It may even sway the opinions of the current leadership. And it is certainly a subtle way to undermine that current leadership." Vicious looked back at Mao, trying to gauge his reaction.  
  
"Are you sure your own desires do not inform this opinion more than the facts?" Mao returned the scrutiny.  
  
"I admit that a breakdown in this uneasy truce would please me," Vicious replied. "But I have carried out the duties assigned to me, and I would not attack my partner and closest friend to bring one about."  
  
Mao sighed. "You do not need to convince me of that. However, your theory has a major flaw. I should not have to point it out to you."  
  
"I should be the target." Vicious looked around at him through a curtain of white hair. "Correct?"  
  
"Correct. And in my opinion, that flaw disproves it."  
  
"Not if the offensive comes from within the Red Dragon, as you have been suggesting. Not when my desire to eliminate the White Tiger is widely known. And not when Spike is widely known to disagree with me."  
  
Mao nodded slowly, considering it. "First, attempt to subvert him. If that succeeds, he can be ousted on those grounds. If it fails, eliminate him, and the seed of White Tiger involvement has already been planted." He spread his hands. "Assuming you are correct, how do we make the events of the past few days fit?"  
  
***  
  
Vicious parted ways with Mao in the lobby of the tower. They'd gone round and round the issue on the rest of the flight back, but nothing seemed to fit. He paced the hallways, keeping an eye out for Marcus so he could ask where Julia was staying. Lin found him first.  
  
"Vicious! Thank god you're back." He looked around, making sure they were alone before going on. "I brought Shin in, and they locked him up in the chamber. Marcus is down there with him."  
  
"Why is that a problem?" Vicious turned to follow him toward the elevators.  
  
"I showed Shin the coroner's pictures from Julia's apartment. He said one of the men gave him Spike's comm. code a week ago and told him I was his partner. He said he was told to contact my partner if Rocket came up with anything to sell. As soon as Marcus heard about it, he shut himself in the chamber with Shin." Lin jabbed impatiently at the elevator call button. "I didn't bring him here so they could torture him. He told me everything. He feels terrible."  
  
Vicious nodded, but looked unconvinced. "I still don't understand why Marcus interviewing him is a problem to you. I doubt he would use force if Shin is speaking freely."  
  
"It was strange," Lin replied as they boarded the elevator. "Marcus was furious when he found out I'd let Shin see the pictures. He didn't believe Shin had seen the man before. He said he was going to get the truth out of him, and that was an hour ago."  
  
Vicious could feel something unspooling in his mind; though it was not yet clear, he understood Lin's fear. Marcus had no reason to isolate Shin, and even less to disbelieve what he said. He had been instructed to keep an eye on Julia, and his failure to do so was reason enough for Vicious to be angry, even without the rest.  
  
"Well, he will have to yield to me, and I have much I would like to ask Shin myself."  
  
Mato and Lao rose from their chairs when the elevator doors opened. Both wore strained expressions, and Vicious nodded to them without a word as he crossed to the door of the interrogation chamber. He knocked twice, and stood waiting, but no reply came. After a few seconds, he sighed to himself and punched in a code on the keypad. The lock clicked, and he turned to face the other three men in the room. "Get Mao and Julia. Lin, you stay here."  
  
"I'll go," Mato replied.  
  
Lao looked between Lin and Vicious. "Would you prefer I leave?"  
  
"No," Vicious said, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. "I think it would be best if one of you stayed."  
  
He pushed the door open. Lin let out a yell and tried to rush past him, but he extended an arm to hold him back, taking in the scene: Shin lay on the floor, barely conscious, and Marcus stood over him, his face, hands, and clothing spattered with blood.  
  
"Get out," Vicious said, barely audible.  
  
"Fuck you," Marcus shot back.  
  
"I have reconsidered," Vicious replied, louder but still icy calm. "You stay. Lin, get your brother out of here. Lao will help you take him to the infirmary."  
  
"I'm not finished." Marcus stepped between Lin and his brother's crumpled form.  
  
"I suspect you are rather more than finished." Vicious drew the katana and had it at his second's throat in one fluid movement. "Step aside."  
  
Marcus obeyed, his expression revealing nothing but anger. Lin helped his brother to stand and they made their way around the table, out of the room.  
  
"Close the door," Vicious barked.  
  
As soon as Lin had done so, Vicious increased the pressure of the blade against Marcus' throat, backing him up against the wall.  
  
"You have made a grievous error," he began, barely above a whisper again. "Your strategy is commendable, but you chose the wrong target."  
  
Marcus sneered. "I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
Vicious leaned forward until bright spots of blood appeared along the edge of the blade. "What would Shin have told us that was worth killing him to keep hidden?"  
  
A flicker of fear passed over Marcus' face, but it went as quickly as it had appeared. "Shin is nothing but a junkie. He'll say anything for the promise of a Woolong or a hit."  
  
"You can forego the attempts to mislead me," Vicious said, and he stepped back a few paces, sword at the ready. "The more I look at your face, the more it falls together. Seven of us, besides the Van, knew about the distribution agreement before Spike got the payment. Six of us knew about the meeting at the library, and where to find Spike afterward. Four of us knew about Rocket's buy. Three of us knew Mao and I were going to pick up Spike."  
  
"Four," Marcus interjected, looking like a cornered animal. "Julia knew."  
  
"Julia, Mao and I have done nothing but try to keep Spike alive for the last forty-eight hours," Vicious continued, advancing on him again. "And the one person remaining – you, if you were not keeping score – is the only one among all of us with access to the financial system."  
  
The door to the chamber burst open, and Marcus lunged forward, attempting to take advantage of the distraction. Vicious sidestepped gracefully with a flourish like a dancer, and Marcus let out a scream as he fell forward, bleeding freely from his right thigh.  
  
"Vicious!" Mao's voice boomed off the concrete walls.  
  
Turning partway, so that he could see his mentor and still keep an eye on his prey, Vicious snarled, "Bring him up before the Van."  
  
"Explain yourself," Mao countered.  
  
"I have been nothing but loyal to you, Vicious," Marcus gasped as he struggled to stand. "Loyal to your principles, even when you were not."  
  
All eyes trained on the blond man, now covered in his own blood as well as Shin's. He looked around the room at their faces and sneered. "Don't tell me any of you believed in this charity organization we've been playing at."  
  
Mao turned back to Vicious, his expression dark. "I'm still waiting for your explanation."  
  
"Bring him up before the Van," Vicious repeated. "I'd rather say it once, for everyone to hear." He looked around the room, and then whirled back to Marcus, the blade at his throat again. "Where is Julia?" he demanded.  
  
"Vicious..." she stepped through the door behind Mao, reaching out a hand. He felt as though his knees might give out at the rush of relief, and lowered the sword, though he did not dare take his attention off of his opponent.  
  
"Lao, Mato, restrain him. I will call the Van together. Bind that cut and bring him. Vicious, come with me." Mao's clipped orders betrayed nothing of his frame of mind.  
  
Vicious sheathed his sword and squeezed Julia's hand briefly before he followed Mao to the elevator. She stood, unmoving, while the others filed out. Marcus would not look at her as he went past.  
  
***  
  
Spike woke on the couch of the Alva City apartment after dark. Vicious and Mao had both seemed reticent about his desire to keep his destination a secret, and Mao assured him the apartment was his for as long as he wanted to stay. But the meal and another good rest had done much to improve his stamina, so he set about checking his injuries, muddling through a bandage change, and getting dressed. His first good look at the gunshot wound was enough to make him retch; he felt guilt and overwhelming gratitude for Julia when he saw how much work she'd had to do on him. After a few minutes' rest, the pain faded back to a dull ache, consistent and easier to ignore.  
  
He dug through the fridge and the bag of food Vicious brought, packing bottled water and anything that wouldn't spoil in the duffel along with his comm., the Jericho, and Mao's coat. The city clock tolled midnight by the time he felt ready to set out.  
  
He hadn't seen Old Man Bull since the second anniversary of his father's death. Half shaman, half transient, Bull seemed to have the gifts of both foresight and survival; perhaps the latter was a result of the former. His cryptic advice then - that Death treated Spike with ambivalence because he welcomed its presence - had been the impetus for Spike's return to the Syndicate just after he turned eighteen. Now, five years later, the time seemed right for a reunion.  
  
He flew in a wide circle above the city lights, trying to get his bearings. Piloting the craft proved difficult, between the injured shoulder and the way he had to lean forward in the seat, and by the time he spotted his landing site on the bluff overlooking the west end of the city, he had to blink to keep the brightly colored spots from completely invading his vision. He cursed his way through the rough landing.  
  
When his head stopped spinning, he clambered out of the Swordfish's cockpit and stumbled to the ground, unable to stifle a yelp on impact. The walk to Bull's camp would take an hour at full speed, and the thought of a two-hour or more trek with the bag and the injuries made him want to lie down and die next to his ship. He sat gingerly on the ground beneath her, uncapped a bottle of water, and tried to meditate, but his heartbeat would not slow and deep breathing only made him more nauseous.  
  
Ultimately, it was Vicious' warning that the ship could be tracked that goaded him into action. He'd picked the landing site precisely because it was visible; a trail down to the tenement district of the city wound from the bluff to the valley, so a search would most likely start in that direction. He doubted anyone would think to bring a dog - virtually the only way they'd be able to find him once he disappeared into the woods.  
  
As a final distraction, he pulled his comm. out of the bag and dialed Annie. Vicious would have a fit, he knew, but he told himself he was just helping carry out Mao's red herring strategy. She answered after a few buzzes, and he could see she had ducked into the storeroom to take the call.  
  
"What are you doing contacting me?" she burst out, wide-eyed.  
  
"That's no way to greet a man back from the dead," he drawled. "I wanted you to know I was all right, since I won't be home for a while."  
  
"I don't want to know where you are," she replied, still angry. "You're going to get me in trouble."  
  
"I didn't call to tell you where I was, or where I'm going. I just didn't want you to worry when I didn't come back with Mao."  
  
She allowed a small smile. "You are missed, Spike. Take care of yourself."  
  
"That sounds like you're about to hang up on me."  
  
"I am," she said gravely. "I'll talk to you when you come home."  
  
"Fair enough," he replied, keeping an eye on the connection timer. "One more thing, though."  
  
She raised an eyebrow without answering.  
  
"Tell Julia I said thank you. I said it before, but I didn't realize how much I meant it."  
  
Annie nodded. "She knows, I am sure, but I'll tell her anyway."  
  
"Tell her anyway. Time's up. Be well, Annie." He disconnected, set the comm. on the wing of the Swordfish, and looked up at the night sky to get his bearings before heading into the dense tree cover of the forest. 


	19. White Wolf and Mongoose

XIX. White Wolf and Mongoose  
  
In the golden light of the Van's chamber, Marcus looked sallow and drawn, gray shadows accentuating the lines in his face, the blood on his clothing a matte black where it dried. He was forced to stand on the injured leg, flanked by Mato and Lao, who jerked his shackled arms upward none too gently whenever his strength flagged and he began to crumple. The waiting crowd consisted of those who'd been aware of the transfers and threats to Spike; it was only the third time Julia had been in the chamber, and she stood a respectful distance behind and to the side of her lover.  
  
Wang Long addressed Vicious. "Present the evidence you wish for us to hear."  
  
He stepped forward, mindful of his attitude. What he wanted most was to be assigned the further interrogation of Marcus, but he knew he would not be permitted to participate if they thought he could not control his personal motivations. Clearing his throat, he spoke slowly, in the formal cadence of a courtroom. "Marcus Britt, who stands before you now, was present at the announcement of the Red Dragon's intention to enter into a distribution agreement which would make us the sole suppliers of Red Eye in Tharsis City. His supervisor in the Financial Division, Ichido-san, informed him that night of his assignment to a team, as he told me the following day when I asked him to be my second.  
  
"Britt had an intimate knowledge of Red Dragon banking and an excellent grasp of computer programming. His previous specialty under Ichido-san was the automation of transactions, in order to minimize their visibility in the legitimate flow of currency."  
  
Wang Long interjected, "We are aware of Marcus Britt's previous assignment and activities."  
  
"I apologize." Vicious inclined his head and waited for further commentary. When none came, he went on, "Spike Spiegel received a large bank transfer the day we met with Yenrai-san to discuss the formation of our teams. At that time, Britt did not know to whom he had been assigned. When I formally offered the position of second to him, he expressed pleasure that he would work under me, rather than Spike Spiegel, stating his agreement with my previous declarations regarding the elimination of the White Tiger."  
  
"Declarations that have no place in this chamber," Sou Long said in a cautionary tone.  
  
"Again, I apologize. Were the information not relevant, I would not speak it here." He took a deep breath, trying to focus on the goal of time alone with Marcus, rather than his annoyance with the archaic old men in front of him. "Over the course of the past three weeks, Britt has been part of an ever-narrowing circle of informed persons. He was aware of Spike's location at times when no one else would have been. Most damning, aside from his ability to carry out the bank transfers that Spike Spiegel received, was his knowledge that Yenrai-san and I were going to move Spike from Julia's apartment to a more secure location. I charged him with meeting Julia when she arrived at the tower. He had ample opportunity, and unique knowledge, that enabled him to contact the two men Spike Spiegel killed when they ambushed him."  
  
Mao stepped forward. "With your permission," he said, bowing, and when no one objected, he continued, "the young man who contacted Spiegel regarding the unauthorized transfer of Red Eye was instructed to do so by one of those dead men. It was after he revealed this information that Britt attacked him."  
  
"Shin." Sou Long said, sitting forward. "We would like to speak with this young man."  
  
"He will recover, though not tonight." Mao looked across the room to Lin, nodding slightly.  
  
"What do you have to say in your defense?" Wang Long asked, looking at Marcus.  
  
He did not raise his head when he spoke. "Vicious has proven nothing."  
  
Vicious felt the eyes of the Van on him, and shifted slightly. "We need to review communications records, but now that we know where to look, I believe proof will be easy to find."  
  
Marcus stumbled, dropping to one knee, and did not stand again when Lao attempted to yank him back up.  
  
"Shackle him in the chamber." For the first time that evening, Ping Long spoke. "A review of communications and finance shall be completed before morning. We will discuss the findings then. Vicious, you will return for that meeting. Until then, Marcus Britt is in the charge of the Vanguard. None of you will have contact with him."  
  
Vicious managed to keep his reaction to a slight twitch of one cheek. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mao watching him closely, and he held his breath until all three of the Longs had sat back in shadow, signaling dismissal. Then he turned on his heel and stalked out, Julia looking after him.  
  
***  
  
Through the cover of tree branches, the stars and faintly glittering glowboards high in the atmosphere seemed to ripple, as though buffeted by the wind. It was a pleasant, drowsy illusion, and Spike smiled to himself as he watched. After a few moments, though, it occurred to him to wonder why he was staring up at the night sky, and then the cold began to seep into his limbs from the ground. "Shit!" he exclaimed, and tried to sit up, but his ribs blazed with pain at the attempt and he fell back again, tasting copper when the back of his head connected with the hard-packed dirt.  
  
Groaning, he rolled onto his uninjured right side, and after a brief struggle, managed to sit up. Without the comm., he had no way to know how long he'd been laying there; at least it was still fully dark, so most likely less than an hour had passed. He vaguely remembered thinking he should stop to rest, but nothing after that.  
  
Groping in the darkness, he managed to find Mao's lighter and his cigarettes in the bag, and lit one, keeping the flame burning to take in his surroundings. It seemed like the trees thinned about a hundred yards on down the faint trail – an overwhelming relief, since he didn't think he could travel much further, and couldn't remember where he'd been when he passed out. He crushed out the smoke in favor of some water and a few crackers, and then hauled himself to his feet. Closing his left eye helped with the limited visibility, though the lack of perspective made him queasy, and he began trudging forward again, down the trail toward what he hoped was the clearing of Laughing Bull's encampment.  
  
He emerged from the tree cover to the welcome sight of a campfire, though it was unattended. Three tents surrounded it, the largest being Bull's familiar hovel. Judging from the position of the stars and the faint glow in the west, it would be morning soon, and rather than disturb anyone in the encampment, he sat down next to the fire and lit another cigarette, intending to sleep when it was finished.  
  
"Am I dreaming, or is it really you?" The voice made him nearly jump out of his skin, and he turned, wincing, to see a dark-haired woman peering out through the flap of one of the smaller tents.  
  
"Astrid?" He beamed – he had not seen Bull's oldest daughter since she was barely sixteen, but her features were branded in his memory. She stepped out through the flap, and as she pulled it closed behind her, he could not help but notice her enormous belly. When she faced him, she grinned at his expression. "Time moves forward, Swimming Bird," she said lightly.  
  
He chuckled and looked down, blushing. "I didn't mean to stare. I just had this picture in my head, you know?"  
  
"You still look the same. It is so good to see you again." She came to sit beside him, looking hard in the light of the fire. "You're injured," she said with a frown.  
  
"I came for some good medicine," he replied. "I'll live, I'm sure. Your face alone is a strong painkiller."  
  
Astrid put a hand on his arm. "Let me get Father. He would be angry if I did not wake him." She stood again, and he watched her walk, swaying and deliberate under the extra weight, to Bull's tent.  
  
He had not expected her to be here with Bull; after so many years of no contact, he counted himself lucky she was pleased to see him. Their brief encounters, from childhood until the last, before he returned to the Syndicate, had always crackled with the electricity of attraction. But they were from two different worlds, and for all that it fed the flames, the gulf had been impossible to cross. Bull never addressed the subject directly, but he had sent her away the day Spike arrived last time, and the message had been clear. The tangible proof that she had left him in the past made the reunion bittersweet.  
  
"Swimming Bird!" Bull stooped under the tent flap and nodded, something like a smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "I have been expecting you. Come in."  
  
Spike smiled in return and slowly stood, trying not to telegraph the pain or exhaustion. "As always, it is good to see your face and hear your voice, Old Man Bull." He stumbled as he started forward, and Astrid stepped around her father to come and take his arm.  
  
Bull scowled. "You have managed another narrow escape, Swimming Bird. I watched your star flicker and fade these past four nights." He looked upward. "Even now, it wanes."  
  
"Nothing a pipe and a rest won't remedy," Spike said as lightly as he could manage.  
  
The old man moved aside to let them through, gesturing to the cushion in front of his sand painting. "You will sit, and I will determine what remedy you need." He went back to his own seat, lowering himself into the Lotus position with grace that belied his age, and took up a handful of blue sand from a bag beside him. At least a minute passed before he spoke again.  
  
"The yellow-haired mongoose set a trap for you, but you disarmed it," he declared.  
  
"Close. I think you mean white-haired."  
  
Bull shook his head. "The White Wolf found the mongoose in his den."  
  
"This mystical babble can lead to serious misunderstandings," Spike grumbled. "Can't you just tell me who's trying to kill me?"  
  
Though he kept his eyes closed, Bull's eyebrows rose. "The stars and the wind do not foretell the future or hear the treachery in men's hearts. They merely report what they witness. It is up to you to understand their stories. He dusted off his hands and reached into a fold of his robe, pulling out a leather pouch and a long pipe. "Astrid will make tea," he said, packing the pipe. "Then you will see what your dreams unravel."  
  
"A cup and a bowl," Spike replied, smiling up at Astrid as she rose to start the kettle. "Just what I came for."  
  
***  
  
Julia let herself into the Syndicate suite, throwing the deadbolt and setting the electronic lock behind her. She turned the light on and started when she saw Vicious sitting on the end of the bed, looking up at her through a tangle of white hair. His furious expression gave her pause, but he smiled a little when she met his eyes and extended a hand.  
  
"I want nothing more than to cut Marcus Britt's beating heart from his chest," he said in a low voice, "but second to that, I am glad to see you."  
  
She nodded as she sat beside him. "I hope the proof is easy to find," she said. "The thought of him makes me sick, if you're right that he was behind this."  
  
"He was not the only person involved, obviously. I need to speak to Shin about the men who went to your apartment. Even so, I am certain Marcus orchestrated it. No one else, besides you, Mao, and I, knew enough to carry out the plan." He ran a hand through her hair, appraising her as she turned to look at him. She seemed pale, smaller somehow, and he felt the familiar tug of desire and protectiveness deep in his chest.  
  
She lowered her eyes. "Do you think Spike is safe?"  
  
"He will have to keep himself that way. He did not want to tell Mao or I where he was going. When I left him, he did not trust me." He sighed. "And I suppose I would feel the same, in his position, though I wanted to shake him by the lapels and make him understand that he was wrong." He rubbed her shoulder, kneading with his fingers as though he played a piano.  
  
"He told me about his eye," she said, letting her head roll forward as the muscles in her back relaxed under his touch. "You never mentioned any of that. You never told me about his father."  
  
His hand froze, and she felt a jolt of fear that she'd raised a taboo subject – but he exhaled slowly and pulled her close again. "It was not my story to tell." He pressed his face against her neck. "I betrayed my father and lost him. Spike stayed true and lost his father all the same. We have not spoken of Anthony in years."  
  
"What was he like?"  
  
"Anthony?" She nodded. "Generous. Loyal."  
  
"I know that from the stories," she said. "What was he like to you?"  
  
"Like a lion at rest. I never heard him raise his voice. He took pleasure in being still, but it was the stillness of a predator with no natural enemies. That made his demise all the worse - he was Mao's equal in every way. He mastered his instincts so well they could not protect him from his loyalty."  
  
Warmth spread out through her body at the movement of his lips against her skin. She wanted to concentrate on the conversation, but she was weary to the bone, spread thin and out of touch. He felt solid, like a safe anchor in a strong wind, and when he spoke to her gently as he did now, she could forgive him every curt reprimand or blistering look he'd ever given her.  
  
She turned toward him, putting a hand on his chest to push him backward on the bed, and he smiled to himself as he pulled her down with him. "You must be exhausted," he whispered. "Everything has depended on you these last few days. My angel of mercy."  
  
"Is that a compliment?" she asked, curling up beside him.  
  
He wrapped an arm around her, kissing the top of her head. "I have the highest admiration for those virtues that escape me."  
  
"If you can recognize them, they do not escape you completely," she said.  
  
"If I have you with me, I do not feel the lack." 


	20. Chimera

A/N: In the vernacular of the Bebop series, I guess this is what we'd call the eyecatch. That little graphic on either end of the commercial break, the one before everything starts to come together again. Of course, the freedom of fiction is to live outside the two-act or three-act structure of television and film writing, but I thought I'd give a nod to the milestone anyway, and say once again how much I appreciate the fact that y'all read this yarn. I've had a lot of blanks to fill in from my outline lately, and I'm excited to get back into some of the original material that was written as the emotional and tonal basis of the story.  
  
Also, just a teaser: when I started this project, I did so with the intention of presenting it as an "illustrated history" of life before Bebop. I've begun the work on that illustrated version on a dedicated web site, and I'll link it from my profile when it's ready for prime time, so you can see what I worked from when I created the tale, and read the story with some lovely series art as embellishment. New updates will always appear here at FFN well in advance of the material on the illustrated site, since a lot more work goes into the whole visual creation.  
  
And away we go!  
  
***  
  
XX. Chimera  
  
A thin trail of blue smoke snaked upward from the bowl of the pipe, wavering as it rose higher, finally joining the larger column of sparks and smoke and dissipating into the night air. Burning branches creaked and snapped in the fire while Spike held in the hit. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as far as he could, feeling the world around him slow down.  
  
Astrid's hand on his shoulder made the skin beneath tingle. "Tea," she said softly, and he looked around again, taking the stoneware cup from her with a nod of thanks. The smell of cloves, cardamom and cinnamon masked something bitter in the brew. He blew out a stream of smoke and took a drink; though not unpleasant, it had a medicinal undertone that cleared his sinuses and burned going down. Bull watched him from under half-closed eyelids.  
  
"Where are you hurt?" Astrid asked, sitting beside him. He turned to look at her, noticing the faint scar above her right eyebrow. They'd gone exploring, when he was perhaps fourteen and she twelve, and she'd slipped on a rock in a stream that fed into the bay.  
  
"Spike?" she urged.  
  
"Do you remember how you got that scar?" he murmured, slow and hazy. "You didn't want to go home because Anji would fuss over it. It bled all day. You were the bravest girl I knew."  
  
She smirked a little, knowing his frame of mind well, though she hadn't smoked with her father since he told her she would bear a child. "We're talking about your injuries, Swimming Bird."  
  
"I met another brave girl. She might be as brave as you." He sighed. "She took care of me until I could get here."  
  
"I'll take care of you now. But you have to focus for just a little longer." She turned his face to her with a finger. "You can stay as long as you need to."  
  
He looked into her eyes, deep chocolate fringed with thick lashes, the pupils almost indistinguishable from the iris. "I should probably just show you." She helped him shrug out of the blue jacket, folding it neatly on the blanket beside the fire. He tried to obey her order to stay focused, pulling the tie's knot free and working on the buttons of the yellow shirt. When he slid it off, she pursed her lips and stood without a word.  
  
"Wait. Where are you going?" he called after her.  
  
She waved a hand. "You came for medicine."  
  
He turned back to the fire, watching a hot spot in the coals undulate between red and white. "Women always want to help me in every way but the one that matters," he mumbled, and Bull looked up, but did not say anything in reply.  
  
Spike took another hit from the pipe, shivering a little without his clothing but too high to care. The tea seemed to add a layer to the euphoria. He shuffled through memories of childhood with Astrid, exploring the strange, alien forests so unlike the city (where plants only grew in pots and greenhouses), making up games of chase and challenge, the fumbling, tentative innocent kisses that grew white-hot with adolescence. He'd never asked her for anything, and she'd promised him nothing in return, as though they both knew, wise beyond their years, that the days of youth were for learning and that someday, others would reap the benefits of the lessons. He was surprised to find he harbored neither jealousy nor desire for her, though he'd loved her first, and more than any other, before he met Julia.  
  
The realization brought him back to earth momentarily. He'd never so much as thought the words, though something more basic than language in his heart had reached out to her when he felt certain he was going to die. He would have to see her again, face her again. She loved his closest friend, yet she'd responded to his advance with more willingness than he'd permitted himself to dream of.  
  
Grant a dying man a wish, he'd said to her in jest. And then Bull's words drove straight through the pleasant fog of smoke and tea, burying themselves in the hole in his ribs, making him wish the bullet had found its mark.  
  
"The yellow-haired mongoose set a trap for me," he said aloud, eyes wide. "The White Wolf found the mongoose in his den."  
  
Bull raised his eyebrows.  
  
Like film on a reel, Spike saw Julia in the pool hall, turning to him, golden hair and a golden glow all around her. Her bright blue eyes, the fine features, a faint flush to her cheeks. "She saved me. You can't be right."  
  
"I am neither right nor wrong, Swimming Bird. I am only the listener, the repeater of stories."  
  
Spike's mind raced while his stomach churned. Julia had brought him in, stitched him back together, even held his hand when a nightmare woke him. He kissed her, and she did not turn him away.  
  
He shook his head again. "Whatever it is, it can't be right."  
  
Bull stood slowly. "Only we can be wrong. The eyes deceive. Our fears rise up like a veil between us and what is real, making a towering elm into a menacing chimera."  
  
"There you go, speaking in riddles again," Astrid quipped as she returned to the campfire, but her smile faded when she saw Spike's expression. "Father, what did you say to him?"  
  
Bull gave her a long look that clearly conveyed she knew better than to ask. "Swimming Bird needs food and medicine, and most of all, he needs to dream, to find his way through his own fears to see truth." He placed a hand on Spike's head before he shuffled back to his tent, leaving the two he still thought of as children to themselves.  
  
***  
  
Julia lay staring up into the pitch black of the Syndicate suite. With the curtains closed, she couldn't even make out where the door and windows were in the unfamiliar space. Vicious slept soundly, one arm draped in a possessive and protective gesture over her body, and every so often she would try to dislodge herself, but he only pulled her closer each time.  
  
Though the emotion was almost completely foreign, she knew guilt kept her awake. The weight in her stomach threatened to turn into physical pain. They'd made love, in what felt to her like a prescribed remedy for their few days apart, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Spike's face, resigned and desperately sad. Afterward, Vicious had tried to reach him by comm., believing it was safe to pass along the news of the day, and got no answer. It did not seem to trouble him; he'd simply lay down with her and drifted off, probably for the first sound night of sleep in several days.  
  
The realization came to her by slow degrees: she did not feel guilty for the way Spike's kiss had thrilled her. The gesture had been his farewell confession. Instead, she ached at the thought of him somewhere alone, while she laid with his partner, his friend, very nearly his brother, sharing what he had confessed he desired.  
  
***  
  
Spike worked his way through another cup of the strange tea while he watched Astrid mixing some kind of poultice, the stone bowl resting in the warm ash at the side of the firepit. He had no idea what to say, since he wasn't sure what he even thought. Thankfully, she seemed to understand. She filled the pipe again and passed it to him, looking up at the predawn light spreading across the sky. "You will want this," she warned, "so you can sleep, and so this does not hurt too much."  
  
He took it, fingers covering hers briefly in the exchange. "Have you ever known your father to be wrong?" he asked, his voice low and tight.  
  
She cocked her head. "Something he said came as a surprise to you."  
  
"Too much of a surprise to be true," he replied, trying to keep her face in focus as he held Mao's lighter over the pipe.  
  
She unwrapped a piece of jerky from the basket she'd brought, waiting until he set the pipe down to hand the food to him. "Be careful that you do not take your first impression of what he says as irrefutable fact. His gift is to present only the reality of what he sees. When what he sees touches what he knows, he can interpret it. But when what he sees touches only you, you must be sure you are interpreting it correctly. He cannot do it for you." She moved closer, finding the edge of the bandage he'd tied around his chest and pulling it loose. Faint rushing in his ears made him strain to hear her, and when she began unwrapping the bandage, passing it between her hands with her arms around him, he let himself go, slumping against her shoulder. He felt her smile, and then she lowered him to the blanket, putting a warm hand on his forehead.  
  
"Close your eyes, Swimming Bird," she whispered. "Eat a little more, and let me take care of these." Her fingertips circled the edge of the bullet wound and then the gash in his shoulder. "Someone already took good care of you, I see."  
  
The corners of his mouth lifted a little. "She embroiders." He gasped when the warm poultice made contact with the wound; it seemed to crawl in under his skin, burning, but then it faded to a kind of tingling numbness.  
  
"Dream of women with fine fingers," Astrid said, "and tell me about them later today."  
  
The lingering smile remained on his face, though he did not stir again, and she bound the wound with a long strip of chamois cloth before covering him with another blanket.  
  
"Sleep well, Spike," she whispered, trailing her fingers through his hair. When the sun crept over the horizon, she returned to her tent, murmuring an apology to the man sleeping inside and laying down beside him to pursue her own dreams. 


	21. Silent Witness

XXI. Silent Witness  
  
A knock at the door, polite but insistent, woke Vicious from dreamless slumber. He reached for Julia, but she was already out of bed, pulling on her clothing from the day before. He nodded for her to open the door as he drew the blankets up around his waist.  
  
Lin stood in the hallway in formal Red Dragon regalia. He entered without a word when Julia stepped aside, waiting for her to close the door and lock it.  
  
"The hearing will begin in half an hour," he said. "Whatever evidence they've uncovered from communications or finance has not been revealed to any of us. But I was there earlier this morning when Shin woke up, and he was able to fill us in on what Marcus said to him during the interrogation."  
  
Julia put a hand on his arm. "How is he?" Though she'd never met Shin, it was clear from Lin's drawn countenance and tone that he worried despite their estrangement.  
  
"He will recover, as Mao said. I hope he will be able to testify before the Van this morning, but the physicians weren't positive."  
  
"What did Shin tell you?" Vicious asked, reaching for his slacks. "I would like to know as much as I can before the hearing starts."  
  
Lin smiled for the first time. "That Marcus told him he would live only if he claimed the assailants were White Tigers. And that Marcus questioned him extensively about whether they had mentioned his name."  
  
"Marcus' name?" Julia's eyes widened. "He admitted to knowing them?"  
  
"Not directly, but by the nature of his questions, yes." Lin turned to Vicious. "I have no doubt you saved my brother's life last night. We are both in your debt."  
  
Julia felt a pang at the word, looking to her lover for his reaction.  
  
"The debt is repaid by his testimony," Vicious replied, but his face was grim. "We will see you, and him, I hope, in the chamber."  
  
Lin bowed slightly. "Thank you, again," he said, and nodded formally to Julia before he left.  
  
When he was gone, Vicious went on dressing, speaking to Julia without looking at her. "As much as I want this to be finished, it is too simple. It may have been for the best that we could not reach Spike last night."  
  
She sighed. "I hate thinking he's out there somewhere, not knowing what we've found out so far, at least."  
  
"Will you do the honors?" he asked, his tone warmer. She turned to see him holding out his tie, and smiled. As she took it, he put a hand on her waist and drew her into a firm embrace. "Spike can fend for himself. If he chooses to be out of contact, as I think he has done, we can only wait for him to return and do our best to make it safe for him to do so."  
  
She couldn't help feeling he reassured himself as well.  
  
***  
  
"Bring the accused." Ping Long's voice boomed, more forceful than usual, from the mezzanine. In response, the faint clink of shackles and a shuffling step came from the rear of the chamber, and Marcus appeared out of the shadow, flanked on either side by two of the stoic Vanguard, their black suits with gold braid a marked contrast to his bloodstained and rumpled clothing.  
  
Also by contrast, someone had brought new clothing for Shin, who stood with his brother and another Vanguard closest to Sou Long's box. He looked uncomfortable in the fine-gauge gray suit, but his resemblance to his brother was striking – they could have been mistaken for twins, except that his face bore the yellow and purple blotches of deep bruising, one eye blacked, a large bandage running the length of the left side of his jaw. Julia made eye contact with him and smiled, hoping it conveyed encouragement.  
  
Ping Long leaned forward and looked down at Marcus for several seconds after he came to a stop. Finally, he drew a breath and began, in the tone of a scolding parent. "Marcus Britt, your actions as proven by the evidence we will present today illustrate a reckless disregard for the safety of the most venerable members of the Red Dragon's public guard, and an exaggerated sense of your own capacity and importance.  
  
"Communication records show you made an outbound transmission to a bar in the warehouse district immediately after Vicious and Mao Yenrai left our facility to recover Spike Spiegel from a location you knew. That bar's proprietor confirms the men Spike Spiegel killed when they attempted to eliminate him were frequent patrons."  
  
Marcus opened his mouth to speak, but Sou Long overran his mumbling. "Financial records show your last activity in the computer system before transferring to your assignment as an ambassador was an unscheduled change in the pattern of data backup. Records from the following nine hours are corrupt. This time frame matches the time during which Dragon funds were transferred to Spike Spiegel."  
  
Marcus said nothing.  
  
"Your culpability in these two instances is not in question, and you will be punished for your transgressions," Sou went on. "In addition, Shin Makito is present, and can provide details regarding your attempts to subvert his testimony when he came willingly to the Red Dragon, offering assistance. You may choose to disclose your actions fully of your own volition, if you would prefer to avoid his testimony now."  
  
Vicious scowled, and Mao put a hand on his arm to stop him from speaking, shaking his head slightly.  
  
Marcus raised his head, looking from one member of the Van to the next, and then turned to face Vicious, speaking directly to him. "The Red Eye agreement would never have succeeded, and it made a mockery of our power and position as the superior Syndicate. I did nothing but hasten the inevitable failure of the agreement, in a way I believed would please the man I had been assigned to serve." His expression was haughty, but his voice carried the undertone of a plea.  
  
"You have already amply demonstrated your disregard for our authority," Wang Long said. "In our chamber, you will address us and no one else. I should not have to remind you of that, nor should I have to remind you that you were assigned to serve the Red Dragon, and no other master."  
  
Marcus turned back to the raised platform. "We could not hope to control the continued traffic between the White Tiger and independent suppliers, especially as nothing more than a parade detail of favorite sons. I knew how it would end, and I knew that in the end, Spike Spiegel would be a liability, unwilling to take the actions necessary to shut down our rival before we discovered them sleeping in our homes and raiding our cupboards."  
  
Unable to control himself any longer, Vicious stepped forward, looking up to the three old men for permission to speak. Wang Long held up a hand, though. "Spike Spiegel was no liability to the Syndicate," he declared. "When you assumed, for a temporary period of time, his position as the partner of Vicious, it seems you developed an affinity for that position. But we, and Vicious, can see through the bright plumage of a sycophant to the dull and easily corrupted heart beneath."  
  
"Do what you want with me, then," Marcus replied with a sneer. "I know there is no other way out of this life of servitude for me. Dying by the hand of the Van, or by the hand of a White Tiger allowed to roam freely in our midst – either one is the same to me. And one of them is inevitable, for all of us who stand here in this room."  
  
"Your admittance of guilt secures your punishment," Sou Long declared, "but the Vanguard is not finished with your interrogation." He nodded to the black-clad men on either side of Marcus. "Take him back to his cell."  
  
Vicious watched the trio walk the long carpet, the slow burn of fury in his chest. He'd wanted to hear Shin speak, see Marcus' face at his testimony, and say his own piece as well. Instead, they'd all been brought in to witness the Van's already-made decision.  
  
"Where is Spike Spiegel now?" Wang Long turned to Mao.  
  
"We left him in Alva City," Mao replied, "and honored his request to keep his location secret by not asking his destination."  
  
"Despite the events of the past few days, Spiegel must be accounted for. He is no more permitted to walk away from the Red Dragon than any other in his position." Wang sat back again.  
  
"I am confident he will return," Mao said, his tone respectful, "and if contact is absolutely necessary, I believe I know where to find him."  
  
Vicious raised his eyebrows and looked sharply over at Mao, who avoided his gaze. The Van seemed satisfied by the answer, at least, and he wondered whether Mao really knew anything, or whether he was covering for his own breach of Syndicate protocol.  
  
"We have other pressing matters to address in the wake of this unfortunate series of events," Sou Long said. "This meeting is adjourned, but Vicious, Lin Makito, Mato Yenrai, Lao Long and Mao Yenrai will return this afternoon. We will have further instructions at that time regarding the Red Eye distribution agreement and your conduct in the future. Trapping a mongoose can do nothing to bring back the eggs it has already eaten." Vicious fought the urge to roll his eyes at Sou's penchant for allegory. "Yenrai-san, we request that you attempt to reach Spike Spiegel and inform him of the Van's request for him to return."  
  
Mao bowed low. "With all due respect, should we not wait to recall him until the interrogation of Marcus Britt is complete?"  
  
Sou considered. "It would be satisfactory for you to ensure you have a way to contact him. We require his assurance he will return to Tharsis City."  
  
"As I have said, I do not believe it is in question," Mao repeated, a little impatient now.  
  
"The Vanguard will locate him if you do not," Sou Long warned, and all three sat back, finished with their audience. 


	22. Under the Table and Dreaming

XXII. Under the Table and Dreaming  
  
2066. Good lord, he was 22 years old. Three years ago, he'd never thought he would see this birthday. For some reason, the 21st hadn't seemed so strange; it seemed romantic, like the 20th century bad boy film stars, to live to the age of 21, but everything after that smacked of adulthood.  
  
Vicious was coming to pick him up. He'd bought some battle-tank of a Mercedes a week ago, wanted to drive it around. He wore it like a badge of superiority, like he wore his katana and his cravat to go out to the corner grocery. Spike pinched at the bridge of his nose with his fingers, trying to shake himself out of the funk before Vicious – and much more importantly, Julia – arrived. She'd been living at Annie's for almost a month now, running errands for Mao, insinuating herself into their daily routine like a new coffee stand sprung up on a convenient corner. She could out-drink Spike before an evening was half over; she told bawdy, rip- roaringly funny stories about her life on Venus as an orphan. The way a halo of light appeared around her hair when she passed into sunlight from shadow was a visible representation of how Spike felt every time she entered the room.  
  
He'd be with her tonight, at least. Celebrating his birthday with her. Maybe she'd develop some kind of sentimental sympathy for him. So far, she'd fit comfortably into their routine and their banter. Too comfortable with both of them, in his estimation, since he was used to women preferring him to his partner, and she seemed immune to both of them. When he first came back to Tharsis City, there were days when Vicious' success under the mantle of Spike's father ate at him like an ulcer. On those days, he would take small and bitter comfort in arranging a social outing, and then bringing some cute thing home from the bar or casino, letting Vicious hear them through the wall of their shared apartment. He wasn't without a conscience, though, and that game had been over for a couple of years; the respect of the Van and the tutelage of Mao did much to alleviate his appetite for the unfairly matched competition.  
  
And then she came along, and he wished he could put every barfly from the past back on her stool – to have saved himself the desensitization, so he could ask Julia to come up to the apartment without feeling dirty, and without Vicious' sidelong glance that would say "don't start this again" in the corner of his narrow eye.  
  
He shrugged into his leather jacket when he heard the Mercedes' engine and loped through the double sliding doors of the tower just in time to see Julia climbing out of the passenger side.  
  
"The birthday boy," she beamed at him, and opened the back door with a flourish of the hand.  
  
"Yo," he replied, all practiced nonchalance. "Yo," he addressed Vicious as he ducked under the doorframe.  
  
"`Yo'?" Vicious shot him a look over his shoulder.  
  
Spike smirked. "All the cool kids are saying it."  
  
Julia laughed as she pulled her own door shut. "Is this your desperate attempt to hold on to your fading youth? Retro slang?"  
  
"My youth is not fading, I'll have you know. I'm ablaze with youth." He stretched out sideways, sitting behind Vicious so he could see her, his feet propped on the armrest of the opposite seat.  
  
"Shoes," Vicious muttered.  
  
"Vicious, it's a car. Sooner or later somebody's going to get shot in the head back here, and you're worried about my shoes?" Already his bad mood was fading, and the remark carried more jest than malice. He saw Vicious' cheek twitch with a smothered smile.  
  
"Well, mister ablaze-with-youth, this is your night," Julia said. "What establishment will be the beneficiary of our night of buying your drinks?"  
  
"I want to shoot pool."  
  
"We shoot pool every weekend." She dropped an arm over the back of her seat, trying to smack him in the knee, but he dodged it with a twist of his hips and grinned. "No strippers?" she demanded.  
  
"Nope."  
  
"All-male revue?" She gave him a lecherous wink.  
  
"Hey, do whatever you want on your own birthday," he volleyed, and she laughed with her whole body, throwing her head back.  
  
"Pool it is, then." She turned to face the road, but not without aiming the wattage of her smile at Vicious first. "We'll get our drink money back with interest!" she crowed.  
  
There was hardly any point in driving from the tower to the bar; Vicious manhandled the behemoth into a parallel parking space directly in front of it anyway. They piled out, laughing together, and Vicious held the door open for Julia, but let it go as he followed so Spike had to catch it to keep from getting smacked in the face. In the breezeway, Spike jammed the toe of his boot into the back of Vicious' knee so he stumbled. By the time they made it inside, they were trading elbow jabs, half-grinning and half- snarling at one another. Julia turned and put her hands on her hips. "Can you two act like adults, please?"  
  
"Don't you remember?" Vicious prompted. "He's ablaze with youth."  
  
She shook her head with mock resignation and bellied up to the bar, ordering a bottle of champagne and three glasses. She whispered conspiratorially to the bartender – Spike saw it as he fended off a hand aimed at the back of his head and dove forward, waving his arms.  
  
"No, no, no." He gave the bartender his best pleading look. "Just give us our drinks and let us be."  
  
But it was too late. "Ladies and gentlemen!" the bartender bellowed, waving his white towel above his head. "Our most famous hustler is celebrating a birthday!"  
  
Whoops and catcalls came from the crowd. Heads popped up in mid-shot in the billiard room, grins appearing on faces when they saw Spike, and he hung his head to shadow the blush that spread across his own. He waved a hand dismissively and tried to call above the din, "As you were!" but it was lost in the beginnings of the birthday song, and Julia pressed a glass into his hand while Vicious popped the cork from the champagne.  
  
He smiled awkwardly and nodded through the off-key serenade, raising his glass as the song came to the final refrain and clinking it with a cascade of others that crowded in around him. None of it mattered, except Julia's comical visage, holding out the "oo" in "you", trying to keep her lips pursed around the vowel without laughing. She came to toast him last, and leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Thank god I beat you, or I never would have gotten to know you," she said as the noise died down, and he bit back a reply he was sure would have been far too honest when he realized he'd be heard if he spoke.  
  
That was just what she wanted, it seemed. "Speech!" she called.  
  
"Get out your wallets," he replied with a smirk. "I'll win a drink from every one of you before the night is over." He gave a low bow as the onlookers laughed.  
  
They had plenty of takers for Spike's challenge. When the crowd began to argue 8-Ball versus 9-Ball, Vicious tapped his glass with his ring to get their attention.  
  
"Line up!" he said. "Flip a coin for the break, break seven, shoot until you miss, most balls regardless of suit wins a drink from the loser." Murmurs of agreement came from all around.  
  
He pointed to the two tables closest to the bar. "Spike, you're on that one, Julia and I will play doubles 9-ball next door. Any takers for us?"  
  
The players divided off, and Spike stepped up to the table while he assembled his cue, looking wistfully at Julia and Vicious in a quick pre- match consultation at their table. But he'd said he wanted to play pool, and here he was, and maybe tonight he'd get drunk enough for free to finally work up the nerve and invite her to stay the night.  
  
***  
  
By last call, Spike could only shoot if he closed his left eye and relied on the superiority of the fake to counter the fuzz in his brain. Even so, he'd lost more than he'd won for at least an hour. He stretched with relief at the interruption, turning to his current opponent – a red-haired girl he had seen several times there before. "I'll buy you a drink as a consolation prize for not getting beat fair and square," he told her, "since I think I'm done for the night."  
  
She laughed, and he couldn't help but think of the sound as coarse compared to the way Julia sounded at the next table. "You can buy me breakfast," the redhead replied with a wink.  
  
He did a double-take. "You'd have to beat me at 9-ball for that." He hesitated as he realized how it sounded. "And I'm afraid we don't have time," he finished, avoiding her eyes.  
  
She looked a little hurt, but thankfully seemed drunk enough not to dwell on it. "All right, then," she said, "I'll have a Cowboy."  
  
"Cowboy!" Spike called over his shoulder to the bartender. "And a coffee for me."  
  
Julia looked up. "She beat you?" she asked incredulously.  
  
Red-head turned with a laugh. "No, he's just buying me a drink."  
  
Spike blushed, trying to give Julia a look that denied the implication, but she had already turned back to the table, lining up her shot. He walked to the bar to pick up the order and handed it to the red-haired girl. "I didn't catch your name," he said, trying to be polite.  
  
She giggled, leaning in to him. "Bridget," she replied. "I didn't catch your number."  
  
"I..." he fought the urge to look over and see what Julia was doing, trying to think of a good way to dodge the request, but none came to him. "Spike." He held out his hand, but rather than shaking it, she took it and wrapped her other arm around his.  
  
"You don't have a comm., Spike?" She pressed against him, still giggling.  
  
He disengaged himself, feeling less of an urge to be polite, even though the chivalry habit was hard to break. "I do," he replied. "But it's for work."  
  
"Oh." A look of comprehension dawned on her face. "Well, happy birthday." She gave him a strained smile and turned her back, tipping the drink to her lips as she sashayed away.  
  
He filed out of the bar with the crowd; slamming the cup of coffee had done little to stop Spike's head from spinning, and he had to concentrate hard on not stepping on anyone through the breezeway. He sucked in a great lungful of cold night air when he made it to the sidewalk and turned, waiting for Julia and Vicious to follow. They came out together, his silver head bent close to her gold, laughing about something. Spike shifted from one foot to the other, digging his last cigarette out of the pack and searching his pockets for his lighter as they joined him.  
  
"Breakfast?" he asked.  
  
"Mmm, not me," Julia said, but she cocked her head at him and squeezed his arm. "Ask me next time, though."  
  
They'd perfected the exchange. He knew she probably passed as a way to guard against his very intentions – she never joined them for breakfast, always asking to be dropped off at Annie's first, so asking her up had been a farfetched hypothetical from the beginning. He felt disappointed anyway, and a little bitter that he'd spent the evening playing with acquaintances instead of his best friends. Next time I'll work out a speech beforehand, he thought to himself, so I won't get myself in trouble with my big mouth.  
  
They drove the three blocks to Annie's in companionable silence, the hum of the engine faint after the five hours of din in the bar. Before she got out of the car, Julia leaned back over her seat and kissed Spike on the top of his head. "Happy birthday, gangster," she quipped, but the pleasant liquid sensation of being the object of her attention faded when she planted one on Vicious' cheek as well and then left the car, waving through the window. Vicious watched her unlock the delivery door and close it again behind her while Spike moved from the back seat to the front.  
  
"I don't really want breakfast," Spike said, leaning back against the headrest. "I think I need a gallon of water and an aspirin. Thank god we don't have to work tomorrow."  
  
Vicious just nodded, seemingly off in his own world. With considerable effort, Spike lifted his head again and turned to face his partner. "Something bothering you?"  
  
"No, not at all," he replied, pulling out into the deserted street and gunning the engine. "Just the opposite."  
  
Spike raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"  
  
A faint smile played on Vicious' thin lips. "She is extraordinary."  
  
"Mm," Spike replied, feeling something cold creep into his stomach. They were quiet again until Vicious parked in the underground garage.  
  
"Who was the redhead?" Vicious asked, his tone still light, as they walked to the elevator.  
  
Spike shrugged. "Bridget."  
  
"Did you get her number?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
They moved to the back of the lift, both leaning against the half-height cage, staring straight ahead. When it stopped, Vicious turned to Spike, a hand on the safety gate. "I think I have a chance with her," he said, suddenly sober and serious.  
  
Spike looked at him, but did not reply.  
  
"I can see by your reaction you think the same about yourself." He opened the gate and held it for his partner.  
  
Spike walked a half-pace ahead down the hall, dizzy from the alcohol and the cold irritation that had now radiated out into his torso. He unlocked the door and went through, leaving it open for Vicious, and flopped onto the couch of the living room/dining room/weight room that was separated from the kitchen only by the switch from hardwood to linoleum.  
  
"I think it would be best if we have this conversation now," Vicious pushed on, sitting across from him in the armchair.  
  
Spike let his head fall back on the armrest. "Which conversation?" He sighed, closing his eyes.  
  
"The one in which we act like men and agree not to fight over a woman."  
  
"I'd win." Even as he said it, doubt crowded his mind, and the doubt brought anger. He turned, looking across the coffee table through the slits of his eyelids.  
  
"Consider it repayment." Vicious leaned forward on his elbows; his expression was surprisingly plaintive, though it didn't come through in his voice. Spike snorted.  
  
"Repayment and a loan, more like."  
  
Vicious dropped his head. "All I ask is that you let me try. Give me a shot before you turn on the headlights."  
  
"She avoids the issue with both of us, you realize?"  
  
"She did not, with me, tonight," Vicious replied. "Or at least, she seemed receptive. You've rubbed it in often enough in the past. Let this one go."  
  
Spike scowled at how his impetuousness came back to haunt him, despite everything he'd done to live it down. "You should have asked me to let one of the ones who didn't matter go."  
  
"But that is precisely why I ask this time. Because she does matter." Vicious looked deadly serious. After a moment, he added, "Please." It obviously pained him to say.  
  
Drawing himself up off the couch with a groan, Spike crossed to the sink. He took down a glass and ran the tap until it was cold, not yet ready to commit to an answer.  
  
"The truth," Vicious went on, though Spike cringed at his voice, "is that I have never met a woman before who seemed to be my equal. I feel differently about her than I have ever felt about anyone."  
  
"Do you love her?" Spike popped an aspirin, welcoming the acrid taste in the back of his throat – something to divert his attention, however briefly.  
  
Vicious sat stock-still. Spike knew it was a touchy subject, but he was feeling belligerent.  
  
"I may, in time," he finally replied.  
  
"Well, I don't have to wait to know my answer to that question," Spike shot back.  
  
"How often do I ask something like this of you?"  
  
"It's the first time you've asked. Usually you just take what you want."  
  
"Leave Anthony out of this." Vicious stood abruptly, pacing to the window. "That subject is dead."  
  
"Poor choice of words," Spike snarled.  
  
"As though saying it makes it true, when it otherwise would not be?" Vicious scoffed.  
  
"It's crude, in context."  
  
Both young men stood, focused on their nonexistent tasks, while the silence bubbled.  
  
"All right, I picked that fight," Spike relented. "You're just asking more than I think you realize."  
  
"It probably will not matter," Vicious said with surprising resignation. "But I want a shot, all the same."  
  
Spike set the glass down on the counter, thought better of it, and retrieved it to put it in the dishwasher. "Take your best one, then," he replied, and without a backward glance, went to his room and shut the door.  
  
***  
  
Singing. For the second time in the same week, his body felt drained, dismembered and hastily reassembled, and he heard singing, an ethereal female voice. The tempo was a waltz; as consciousness returned, along with the pounding in his head, he made out some of the words.  
  
"You haven't lost all sight.  
  
You're just guiding your own satellite.  
  
Not much is set in stone –  
  
You'll take the long way home."  
  
He opened his eyes, moving as little as possible while seeking out Astrid. She sat a ways away, in the Lotus position, cradling her belly as though she already held an infant. Beside her, a tall man with a cascade of black hair knelt, gathering the ashes from the spent fire in a large bowl while she sang.  
  
"You'll find me  
  
In a new apple tree,  
  
And when I fall for you,  
  
You'd better catch me."  
  
She caught him looking and stopped with a gentle smile. "Welcome back," she murmured.  
  
"You can keep going," he replied.  
  
"It's a duet. But Mayan," she directed her smile at the man beside her, "refuses to sing it with me."  
  
Mayan inclined his head to Spike. "It's a song about leaving. Bad luck."  
  
"Everybody's so superstitious around here," Spike groaned. "I think I have a hangover, but it's hard to tell."  
  
Astrid nodded. "Two cures for that. A day, or more tea."  
  
He pushed himself up with his right arm, surprised to find that despite the hammering in his skull, his other injuries hurt far less. "Water, I think. And I feel like I could eat a whole cow."  
  
"We weren't expecting visitors," Mayan said, not unkindly. "I'm going to the city this afternoon for supplies. Until then, we have jerky and polenta."  
  
Spike stretched to reach the duffel, noting the range of movement in his left arm had improved. He pulled out his cigarettes, lighting one and closing his eyes for the first few drags. Then he dug into the bag again and came up with his wallet. He extracted a handful of hundred-Woolong notes. "Load up. Next trip you make, I'll come along and help you carry it back." He handed the money to Mayan.  
  
Astrid's eyes went wide, but she said nothing. Spike shot her a look and chuckled.  
  
"I didn't end up in this condition by robbing a bank, if that's what you're wondering."  
  
She blushed a little. "I wasn't, exactly. Though now I wonder how long you plan to stay."  
  
"Not sure. Where I came from, I had people blowing holes in me." He looked between Astrid and Mayan, suddenly uncomfortable. "I can find somewhere else –"  
  
She lifted a hand to stop him. "Not what I meant at all. You know you are welcome here forever."  
  
He cracked his neck and grinned, but the smile faded even before he spoke. "Last night, if you had made me that offer, you might have been stuck with me. But as usual, Bull was right. And when I'm well enough, I have unfinished business that calls me back to the pavement."  
  
Astrid rewarded him with a wide grin. "Then we will be happy to have you for as long as your recovery takes."  
  
***  
  
A/N – I don't typically incorporate songs in my writing, but this piece was too apropos, and obscure enough to make it exempt from the rules. And the mood of the Dave Matthews Band album "Under the Table and Dreaming" made it a perfect title to this chapter.  
  
"The Long Way Home" is © 2003 Catrec Films, from the short film THE LONG WAY HOME, by Baron Arnold, Ficus Kirkpatrick, David Bort and Ashley Windham. Hear it by following the link in my FFN profile. 


	23. Unanswered

A/N: I know I've made you wait. This one might piss you off more than mollify you. Fear not, there's more coming this weekend.  
  
***  
  
XXIII. Unanswered  
  
Julia tried not to let her exclusion from the afternoon's meeting with the Van chafe too much. Vicious had reassured her, before he left, that it had nothing to do with anyone's perception of her importance in the past few days' events; even so, she couldn't help feeling she had a right to be present. But one did not show up uninvited in the chamber, and with Marcus under lock and key, at least she was free to walk in the sunlight.  
  
She set out without a destination, blinking and digging for her shades as she passed through the exterior door of the tower. Her feet led her down the path that was still most familiar, even after a year, and she found herself at Annie's shop.  
  
Two young boys barreled out through the door as she reached for the handle. They ducked under her arm, and she heard Annie yelling after them, "I know your parents!"  
  
"Troublemakers?" she asked as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior.  
  
"Julia!" Annie threw her hands up in the air. "From the faces I dread the most to the one I love the best. Thank god you're all right."  
  
Julia raised an eyebrow and pulled a stool up to the counter. "I've been all right all along. I seem to be the eye of the storm."  
  
The older woman nodded, pouring coffee for both of them. "Seems like Britt knew better than to mess with you." She looked closely at Julia. "Have you heard from Spike?"  
  
"No." She sighed. "Mao says he knows where to reach him, but Vicious isn't sure if that's true or not."  
  
"He called me yesterday," Annie said, putting a hand on Julia's arm. "He wanted me to pass along his gratitude."  
  
Julia's eyes widened. "Did he say where he was? Was he okay?"  
  
"He talked like his usual self. Looked pretty beat up, though. And I didn't want to know where he was, so no, he didn't tell me."  
  
"He was pretty beat up." Unbidden, the memory of him lying bloody and ashen in the tub flashed through her mind, and she shivered. "He doesn't know about Marcus, then?"  
  
"No, I didn't know about it when he called." Annie hesitated. "Honey, he'll be fine. He always is, somehow."  
  
Julia nodded mutely.  
  
"You did a brave and selfless thing, taking him in." Annie added a shot of whiskey to her mug, offering the bottle across the counter, but Julia shook her head.  
  
"There was nothing else I could have done. He would have done the same for me."  
  
"All too true," Annie replied. "More than you realize, I imagine."  
  
"No. I know too well."  
  
Annie raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.  
  
"Why did no one ever tell me about Anthony?" She pushed a lock of gold hair behind her ear, trying to sound casual.  
  
"Some subjects serve no purpose being revisited," Annie said carefully. "You knew who he was, of course. And how he died."  
  
"But in two years, I never knew Vicious lived with him. Did you know him?"  
  
Annie took a gulp of her coffee before responding. "He was one of our closest friends. When Spike's mother... left, I watched him during the days, in the summertime, until he went away to school on Jupiter. Anthony and Ming –" she cast a glance at the portrait of Annie, Mao and a silver-haired man Julia vaguely knew to be her late husband – "grew up together in the Syndicate. Anthony's death made us all realize we were not immune to what went on in the street."  
  
"I've never heard anything about Spike's mother."  
  
A shadow passed across Annie's face, leaving it closed. "You will not hear about her from me."  
  
With a long exhale, Julia straightened her back and looked around the shop. "I didn't know who else to get the whole story from," she said. "I've gotten bits and pieces from Spike and from Vicious these last few days, but nothing I can put together."  
  
"Julia, I mean it. Some things are not meant to be dredged up and turned over like trinkets on a coffee table. If either of those boys told you anything at all, it's more than most people who weren't there will ever hear."  
  
She knew Annie kept a secret better than just about anyone – which was how she came to know just about everything. But her closed mouth only served to make Julia more curious. "Tell me what Anthony was like, then," she said, "something – I feel like if I knew that, I might understand both of them better."  
  
Annie smiled, seeing Julia clearly for the first time that day: older, more sure of herself, and with it, troubled the way a woman who had to confront a difficult choice would be. "Isn't it enough to understand them for who they are?"  
  
She hesitated before answering. "Not anymore, not really. Vicious and I had a rough patch a few weeks ago, and I don't think I realized until then how much I depended on Spike to... I don't know. Buoy him up. And me, too."  
  
"Well, then, you're further on your way to knowing Anthony than you think." Annie gave her a sympathetic look. "Neither of them is everything Anthony was, but they're like the two halves of him. That didn't come from them living together – the time was really too brief. It was more that Vicious represented the things Anthony wanted Spike to be, but would never push him into, and Spike represented the things that brought Anthony the most joy, but at the greatest costs to his success. When he had them both, he had everything, at least for a little while."  
  
Julia groaned. "You're being cryptic."  
  
"I don't think so. You can see for yourself how Vicious drives Spike to succeed with him. And how Spike can make Vicious act like a normal person. Before you came along, no one but Spike could so much as make Vicious smile. I thought he was the most hateful creature when Mao first brought him around." She chuckled, trying to soften the comment. "He was all focus and no pleasure in the accomplishment. That's changed, slowly."  
  
"He didn't seem that way to me until later," Julia replied, wrapping her hands around her mug. "But then, I never saw him without Spike until after..." She trailed off, lost in thought.  
  
Annie pinned her with a stare. "I can hear what you're saying, Julia, even if you don't mean to let on."  
  
"What am I saying?" Julia challenged.  
  
"You're wondering who you fell for. Or maybe what you fell for. Either way, you're asking hard questions and I have no answers to them."  
  
Julia shook her head, but her expression didn't convey the same resolve. "I fell for Vicious because he treated me like I thought I deserved to be treated. And because he was the kind of man I thought I deserved."  
  
"That's a double entendre if I ever heard one," Annie replied, and took another long pull on her coffee-and-whiskey.  
  
"And the issue is a pointless and rhetorical one," Julia said, mostly to herself.  
  
Annie set her cup down on the counter, watching confusion give way to determination on the young woman's face. "Asking if you've lived your life in a way you won't regret is never pointless. It's how we all learn to make better decisions."  
  
Julia stood abruptly, and her smile was a little too bright for the mood in the room. "There's nothing any of us can do to change the past. My words to live by." She pulled her shades out of her pocket.  
  
"No, there isn't. We can only change the future." Annie smiled back, but the look was inescapably sad.  
  
"Thank you for the coffee. And for passing Spike's message along. It helps. I should probably see what kind of a wreck my apartment is, though." With the glasses on, the rest of her porcelain face gave no clue to her thoughts.  
  
"Come back soon," Annie replied, refilling her coffee cup. "I'm always here."  
  
"You have no idea how much I appreciate that," Julia said softly, and walked out, back straight and head high, throwing a wave over her shoulder silhouetted in the bright sun of the doorway.  
  
Annie sat for a long time after Julia was gone, her coffee forgotten, turning over memories that had been buried beneath hard-packed soil for years.  
  
***  
  
Mayan had not returned by mid-afternoon, so Spike did what he could to help Astrid bring wood to rebuild the fire before the chill of dusk set in. Bull came out to sit in the sun and watched the two of them wordlessly for almost an hour; they, too, said little, though Astrid stopped often in her tasks, taking longer than she normally would, to give Spike the impression he was of some assistance.  
  
When his strength finally gave out, he went to sit beside Bull and lit a cigarette.  
  
"What did your dreams reveal?" Bull asked, not looking at him.  
  
Spike shrugged. "More complications than answers."  
  
"Then you are not yet finished dreaming."  
  
The younger man stretched his legs out, wincing at the pull of the healing skin over his hip. "I'm starving."  
  
A small smile crept over Bull's wrinkled face. "Fasting brings clarity to the mind, but it will not help your body. Perhaps the clarity will need to wait until you are strong enough to greet it."  
  
Though she had not heard the conversation, Astrid ducked out from under the flap of her tent with a bowl of cornbread and offered it to the two men before taking a piece for herself. She settled herself with surprising grace, given the extra burden she carried, opposite her father so she could see them both.  
  
Spike smiled at her. "I don't know why I thought you would stay sixteen forever."  
  
She laughed and rested a hand on her belly. "You've grown up too, you know."  
  
"I didn't have much choice in the matter," he replied, taking the proffered pipe from Bull with a nod.  
  
"None of us do. Being here is like being a child again, if only for a little while, though."  
  
Spike nodded, lighting the bowl and waiting until the rush hit him to speak again. "With all the good and bad that comes from it."  
  
"You cannot truly grow until you leave the past behind," Bull offered, watching him.  
  
"The future I want is impossible to achieve," Spike said, slurring a little but clearly thinking hard. "Everything I want is promised to someone else. Everything I dread happens, no matter what I try to do to stop it." He looked to Astrid, surprised to see bright tears in her eyes, though they did not fall.  
  
"As soon as you stop trying the locked door, you will see your path ahead of you," Bull replied. "Whether it will take you away from what you believe you desire, or whether it will lead you there by the route you should have taken all along."  
  
Spike chuckled, his grip on the pipe loosening. "I wish I could figure out where I fucked up, to deserve the place I'm in now."  
  
Bull stood slowly, stretching to full height, before he answered. "Pity yourself when you are at the end. But you are not there yet. You found your path once before, here with me. You will find it again." 


	24. Redcoats, Black Tar and White Lies

XXIV. Redcoats, Black Tar and White Lies  
  
Mao opened the discussion in the chamber that afternoon, his face drawn and guarded. He stood in the center of the red carpet and cleared his throat. "Last night, we parted with the question of Spike Spiegel's location. I have ascertained that information, and expect to make contact with him before the day is out. I cannot say without consulting him when he plans to return to Tharsis City, although I would expect him to do so as soon as he is well enough to travel again."  
  
"We will expect you to report to us as soon as you have spoken with him," Wang Long replied. "Make clear to him that his absence is displeasing to us. Now that we have identified his attacker, there is no reason for him to operate outside our circle of influence."  
  
"I would hardly call what he is doing 'operating'," Mao said with a wry smile. "My understanding is that he has barely been conscious since arriving at his destination, but he is well cared for, certainly as well as he would be cared for here, and with fewer prying eyes to interrupt his recovery."  
  
Wang Long nodded. "We will require his presence and his services in the coming weeks, especially in light of what we plan to announce today. However, before we address that subject, we understand Vicious has requested audience with us, and with all of you assembled here. State your purpose, Vicious."  
  
"I request permission to speak freely," he said, his voice clear and confident, filling the room.  
  
It came as some surprise when Sou Long, the one who most often reprimanded him, who spoke in riddles and aphorisms, replied, "We will hear all that you have to say."  
  
Vicious took a deep breath before going on. "Although his actions were reprehensible, and I hope that I can be the claw of the Dragon once more to mete out his punishment, Marcus Britt spoke truth. An attempt to broker a business agreement with the White Tiger over Red Eye was a move no one who walks on the street would so much as suggest in jest. You have lost your fangs, thinking that we traffic in goods and services like normal merchants. We do not sell rice to restaurateurs. We sell poison to exterminators. We do not finance mortgages with property as our guarantee. We lend power and collect blood in interest. The Red Dragon empire has grown powerful in legitimate ways, but my daily life does not reflect it, except in the cut of my suits. Ours is a treacherous division of the corporation, and it cannot – will not – adhere to the rules of polite society.  
  
"Too often in recent months I have heard the placid repetition of ancient feudal theory in this chamber. It reminds me of the history books about Earth, when a great and noble empire, more powerful than any other, clad its soldiers in brilliant red finery and lined them up in spectacular parade formation, sending them out to fight a war. Their opponents welcomed the onslaught – seeing, instead of a formidable foe, a tidal wave of willing corpses, marching toward oblivion. Those opponents clad themselves in camouflage and lay in wait, picking off each successive row of soldiers, until the great empire had no more corpses to send. What you attempted to do with myself, and Spike Spiegel, and Mato Yenrai, amounts to the fallacy committed by that Earthen empire. We are fortunate that we still had our instincts to guide us, or we would all be deep in our graves already, casualties of a cause you might continue to champion until every son of every venerable member of this house had given his life in pursuit of your ignorant dream."  
  
When he stopped, the echo of his voice cascaded back from the corners and ceiling of the chamber, and the audience stood stunned, stealing glances at one another. Finally, Wang Long rose to the bait.  
  
"Your excellence as a leader in the affairs for which you are responsible affords you some leeway in our presence, but nonetheless, you demonstrate your ignorance by your words." He cleared his throat. "We might turn the lens of criticism on you, for failing to consider our larger goals. Another story from Earth before the destruction of the Gate informs our plan, and you have provided us with segue to open that discussion. On Earth, for centuries, people used the extract of the Poppy plant to produce opium and other highly addictive, hallucinogenic substances. These substances were simple to manufacture, in high demand, and brought power to their producers.  
  
"Families involved in business, not unlike ourselves, saw an opportunity to own the distribution and profits of this substance, to control their flow and ensnare their buyers. But to do this with the same product a simple farmer could create seemed both pointless and arduous. So instead, they developed a refined version of opium, the drug you have heard called heroin – and with this concentrated and refined new product, they gained a stranglehold over those willing to part with their money. We have in mind a similar refinement of the stimulant known as Red Eye, and the acquisition of a manufacturing facility gives us the means to set our brightest minds in the legitimate scientific realm on the task of improving this pedestrian street drug."  
  
Vicious raised an eyebrow and leaned forward slightly. "Then what was the purpose of brokering an agreement with the White Tiger?"  
  
Wang Long gave him a disdainful look. "We stated our reasons at the time. In addition to the pressure from the ISSP, pressure we will now have to feel in full measure, it made good psychological and business sense to bring the White Tiger into our fold. They could not accuse us of attempting to break down their profits, and had you and your fellow ambassadors succeeded, they would have been helpless, by the time we introduced our superior product, to compete at any level. But you are young and impetuous, Vicious, despite your belief you know better than we do. So it does not surprise me that you did not think further ahead than your own petty discomfort at the idea of behaving like a businessman instead of an animal."  
  
Mao stepped forward, raising his voice before Vicious could retort. "I believe everyone would have been better able to fulfill their duties if they had had some sense of the full scope of your intentions."  
  
"It is neither necessary nor wise for us to reveal our full intentions to anyone. None of you should require justification for carrying out an order we give you. Perhaps that, more than anything else, is the lesson we expect you all to take away from the events of the past week." Wang Long sat back again, and Vicious thought they might be excused, but Sou Long took up the reins.  
  
"Vicious, I did not miss your request at the beginning of your tirade, and I will answer you now: you will have no further contact with Britt. He is valuable to the Red Dragon as a traitor, for what he can reveal through slow degrees of torture. Your desire to simply be rid of him is, like everything else you have displayed of late, impatience. It makes you dangerous to the security of the Red Dragon as a whole. I cannot help but note you have been dangerous in this way, more and more frequently, in the recent past. Be careful you do not jeopardize all you have worked for by squandering our trust on personal vendettas."  
  
It would have been impossible to miss the fury in Vicious' expression, but he did not open his mouth to speak again, clearly collecting every ounce of his resolve to keep from making his position worse.  
  
"You are all dismissed," Sou Long said, "and may return to your regular duties. There will be frequent visits from the ISSP Special Forces in the coming days. Avoid them if you can, and say nothing if you cannot; we will do everything in our power to prevent any of you from being detained. Fortunately, we hear word of a skirmish erupting on Titan, and it seems the military police have much of their attention focused there. You should all hope that situation becomes dire enough that our problems seem petty by comparison."  
  
***  
  
Spike sat alone by the fire, watching the sun drop lower over the red Martian hills in the distance, and started when a hand dropped to his shoulder from behind. He turned to see Mayan, with a heavy rucksack over his shoulder and a dark look in his eye.  
  
"We need to talk," Mayan said, looking around the camp. "Where are Astrid and Bull?"  
  
"Went for water," Spike replied. "What do we need to talk about?"  
  
Mayan pursed his lips. "I do not wish to have this conversation where Astrid or her father might overhear. Can you walk with me a ways?"  
  
Warning bells went off in Spike's brain, and he was painfully aware that his weapon lay stashed in the bag in Bull's tent. However, something in Mayan's expression made clear it would be unwise to refuse, so he pushed himself to his feet and nodded, pulling the last cigarette out of his pack. He cursed under his breath, realizing he had not asked Mayan to bring back more.  
  
Mayan dropped his rucksack next to the tent he and Astrid shared, and extended a hand toward the path into the forest. They walked in silence for fifty yards or so; when Spike couldn't keep up the pace any longer, he dropped to the ground and hooked his elbows over his knees. "We're going to have to chat here," he said, wary.  
  
"Fair enough," Mayan replied, and pulled a comm. from his pocket. Spike recognized it, after a moment, as his own. "When I returned to our shop, which has been closed since we came to stay with Bull, two men were waiting for me. They were looking for you."  
  
Spike frowned. "Only two people know I'm here in Tharsis City."  
  
"They were sent by someone named Mao Yenrai. How they knew me, my association with Bull, and in turn your association with Bull, is beyond me and disturbing. In any case, they knew all of that, and they sent me on an errand to retrieve this to bring back to you." He held the comm. out.  
  
Spike took it as though it might burn him. "I don't understand."  
  
"Nor do I. I am not sure what you have brought to our home, coming here, but I want no part of it. I am a legitimate businessman, and Astrid is nearly due to bear our first child. We came here for the last months of her pregnancy to be in solitude and peace. It seems we will not have it long, with you here."  
  
"I swear, I didn't tell anyone about Bull, or about where I was going. If you picked this up, you know how far away I left any trace of myself before I came. I had no way to know Astrid would be with her father." On top of being winded, his heart hammered with nervous suspicion. "I'll go as soon as I can. Tomorrow morning."  
  
Mayan shook his head. "I wanted you to understand, as a man who also cares about Astrid, that I do not believe your being with us is a good thing. However, I will not unsay what she said, because I love her and respect her, so you may stay as long as she and Bull will have you."  
  
"What am I supposed to do with this?" Spike looked at the viewscreen, noting the missed calls from Vicious and Mao, but made no move to use it.  
  
"I was asked to relay the message to you that your attacker has been identified and detained. You are to contact Mao Yenrai immediately. Failure to do so will bring the business of the city here to us, and I will not tolerate that. So in exchange for allowing you to stay, I expect you to make the call now, before we return to camp." Mayan crossed his arms over his chest.  
  
Spike nodded and elected to skip the messages, instead dialing Mao's private line, with one eye on Mayan. He wanted to turn away, but stayed where he was until Mao answered.  
  
"Spike!" he burst out in greeting. "Thank god. If you had not called, I would have had a difficult time justifying your absence again."  
  
"What do you mean? It shouldn't surprise anybody that I'm not there." Spike rubbed his eyes. "How did you find me? How did you find Mayan?"  
  
Mao looked reticent. "I did not want to do it, but when you mentioned staying with a friend of your father's, I was fairly certain you meant Laughing Bull. It took the better part of last night, ever since the Van informed me you could not be out of contact, to find a way to reach you. We traced your ship, and your comm. signal, to its location, but had no idea where you'd gone when we found them. It took considerably more footwork to find someone who might be able to contact you. Please extend my apologies, and assurances that there will be no more."  
  
"Mayan said you locked someone up. Who?" He felt sick to his stomach, afraid to hear her name cross Mao's lips, afraid perhaps he had been wrong to dismiss her from suspicion.  
  
"Marcus Britt," Mao replied, and mistook the relief on Spike's face for general comfort at his enemy being found. "He orchestrated the attack, trying to bring down the Red Eye agreement and sow dissension within the Red Dragon. Vicious and I also believe he would have liked to take your place at Vicious' side, though he does not admit it."  
  
He tried to keep from laughing out loud. "Britt? The penny-pusher? I suppose it makes sense, from the money perspective." He paused, some of the elation fading. "This must be a mess."  
  
"A mess of planetary proportions," Mao said, "but we will not discuss it further over this line. The reason I had to reach you is simple: with Britt in detention, you are expected to return as soon as you are able. The Van considers you a broken arrow, now that the danger appears to be past."  
  
Spike snorted. "The Van can kiss my ass."  
  
"I will not pass that on." Mao gave the camera a fierce glower. "I have covered for you, and I'm pleased I will be able to report that I've spoken with you. But unless you can tell me when you plan to return, and unless I can remain in contact with you until then, there will be serious repercussions for both you and I. You do not want the Vanguard to initiate their own search."  
  
With a sigh, Spike nodded to himself. "I should have expected it. But to tell you the truth, I can't seem to dredge up the desire to come home. Not to mention, I used the last of my strength getting here, and I won't come back until I can make the journey alone. I won't involve these people in it any more than they've already been."  
  
Mao frowned, the lines in his face adding years to it. "I don't suppose you feel like telling me what makes you hesitant to return?"  
  
"If I knew the answer to that, I'd tell you. I don't have a reason why. I only have a reason why not: I'm pretty sure I won't die here. I'm with people I want to be with. Tharsis seems pretty far away, in more than just distance. And I like that feeling." He thought of Julia, her hands on his face, her lips parting for him, and felt the pull of missing her at the same time the dread of having to see her again, and live with what he'd done, made his stomach clench.  
  
"The absence of a reason won't do either of us any good. But I can buy you a few days, perhaps a few weeks, on the basis of your infirm state." Mao looked up from the camera and waved a hand, saying "In a few minutes," before looking back to his screen.  
  
"That had better be satisfactory. I think Julia could give you a pretty accurate catalog of my injuries. Even another good steak won't be enough to get me back to the ship, for a while yet."  
  
Mayan shifted, looking down toward camp and motioning with his head. Spike turned to see Astrid and Bull coming up the path. "Mao, you can reach me here if you need to. But I would rather you didn't. Tell the Van to expect me in a few weeks, and not to expect to hear anything of me in Alva in the meantime."  
  
Mao nodded and let out a sigh. "I'll do everything I can."  
  
"One more thing," Spike said as Astrid and Bull drew within hearing distance. "Leave these people alone. You owe them more than an apology."  
  
"There's nothing else I can do but apologize," Mao replied. "I'll honor your wishes, so long as you answer your comm. if I need to call you. Rest well and come home ready to work again. We have difficult days ahead of us, and your leadership is missed."  
  
"I'll come home when I'm ready to provide it, then," Spike shot back, wishing more than anything that the mantle of responsibility would fall during his absence. "Until then, I'm as good as dead. Proceed as though I were."  
  
"More than your leadership is missed," Mao said more gently. "No one here would like to think you were dead again, anytime before you're old."  
  
Astrid drew up next to them, linking her arm through Mayan's and looking curiously at Spike.  
  
"I have to go," he said, "but the news you had was mostly good, and for that, I thank you." He hit the disconnect and looked around at the faces of his hosts, with no idea what to say.  
  
Mayan spoke instead. "Spike had me retrieve his comm. for him. His attacker has been found and detained. But he'll stay with us until he's ready to return home. I think we could all use a good meal."  
  
Spike gave him a grateful smile and took the hand offered to help him up, following slowly behind them down the trail as the last of the day's light faded. 


	25. The Year of Living Dangerously

XXV. The Year of Living Dangerously  
  
After days of near-fasting, a full meal of rice, bread, chicken and fresh market vegetables sat in his stomach like lead, and Spike groaned as he stretched his legs out in front of him, staring into the fire again, drowsy but feeling less like a husk of a man. Astrid brought out a pot of tea, and Bull disappeared into his tent to meditate.  
  
She waited until Mayan had gone to collect more wood, and then sat next to Spike, looking hesitant. "I don't know how to ask you this," she began, "but it has to be said. It makes me uncomfortable to think my being here is bringing you more sorrow than joy."  
  
He looked over at her and shook his head, smiling faintly. "I didn't mean to give you that impression. We both knew we'd move on. You did, and so did I. But you've moved on to someone you can have."  
  
"That's some small comfort." She traced lines in the soft ground in front of her, an idle pattern that mirrored the weave of the blanket she sat on. "Even so, it's no comfort to know you're unhappy. I'd like to hear about her, if you want to tell me."  
  
He sighed, watching her fingers. "It's not just the woman. But I suppose it begins and ends with her. Julia. Brave and beautiful. My two weaknesses."  
  
She laughed softly. "Two qualities you have yourself."  
  
"Not enough, apparently," he replied, blushing. "I think it comes back to ambition. My ambitions are all out of line with what I have to do. Ever since I've been here, I haven't been able to think about what's waiting for me in Tharsis City." He took a deep breath. "I found my way to her after I got shot. I'd be dead if she hadn't taken me in. And then, after she saved me, I thought I was going to die anyway, and I did a stupid thing I can't take back. I thought it wouldn't matter. I thought I wouldn't have to live with admitting it."  
  
Astrid raised her eyebrows. "Better to confess loving someone than let it eat you up inside."  
  
"Not when the woman I love is the lover of my best friend." The words came out clipped and bitter.  
  
"That is a complication, though perhaps not an insurmountable one." She bit her lip. "And that's why you don't want to go back?"  
  
"I suppose I could face it. They've been together for two years. It's embarrassing, but it could be swept under the rug. But it's more than that." He hesitated, and looked surprised as the words tumbled out. "I would give up everything else to be with her. That's the problem – that's exactly what I want. I want to walk away from the Syndicate, just pick her up and carry her with me somewhere like this, somewhere where it doesn't touch us and we can be together. And that would cost us both our lives. You don't walk away from this job and get a different one." He sipped his tea and closed his eyes.  
  
"What happens when you do go home, then?"  
  
He shrugged. "Back to work. Back to being the odd man out. Ever since my father died, I've thrown myself into anything that seemed dangerous, just to feel alive. But now she makes me feel alive – not because it's dangerous to love her, even though it is. For the first time I can remember since I lost Dad, I don't want to die. I'm afraid of it. I'd rather live out the rest of my life watching her go home with Vicious, just to know I could buy her a cup of coffee."  
  
"Then you will survive this and everything else, as you have all along." Astrid smiled gently.  
  
His expression turned dark, and he drank his tea in silence for a long minute before replying. "Rash action for the promise of happiness is just as instinctive as survival," he said finally, "and I have to master that instinct before I can go back."  
  
Bull emerged from his tent and came to join them, looking silently between the two. He loaded the pipe and took a long hit before passing it to Spike.  
  
He wished desperately for a cigarette, and dragged the tangy, faintly citrus smoke into his lungs instead, letting his eyes close and the sound of his own blood in his veins grow louder than the crackling of the fire. Julia's face, and Vicious', and then the face of his mother – such a faint image that she always seemed like a painting rather than a person when he could recall her – swam behind his left eyelid. He was vaguely aware of hands on his shoulders, laying him down, just like she had done when he was small, and the planet spun on its axis while his heart held fast to the memory at the center of its rotation.  
  
***  
  
The twin handgrips, throttle and altitude adjuster, shook so hard in Spike's hands as he banked into the last turn of the course that his palms grew hot and itched. Behind him, nosecone drifting in and out of the shimmering blowtorch of his primary engine, Pasel Wright drafted and gunned her engine in challenge; when they came out of the turn, she blew past beneath him and to his left, clipping one stabilizer on the Swordfish's wing. He felt the racer dip and pull, and instinctively adapted his grip to compensate for the damage. But now the ship's thrust was divided between pushing forward and staying on-course, and he let out a string of expletives that would have made a freight pilot blush as he watched Pasel cross the finish line almost a racer's length ahead of him.  
  
Despite appreciative catcalls from the crowd, he stayed inside the bubble of the cockpit after landing, waiting for Doohan to come over and hook up the tow before he finally emerged, only to stalk to the cab of the truck and slam the door behind him. He sat there, forehead pressed against the warm glass of the passenger window, while Doohan drove him back into the city.  
  
Anthony came out onto the veranda as the truck and mono-craft pulled into the circular drive, shielding his eyes from the sun with his arm. He watched Spike clamber down from the cab and take the steps two at a time, shoving through the front door and leaving it open in his wake.  
  
"That was not the entrance of a first-place pilot," he called amicably down to Doohan.  
  
"No, it was not," Doohan replied as he unhitched the tow bar. "Second, by a length."  
  
"Who won?"  
  
Spike ground his teeth, peeling off a boot and pitching it at the opposite wall before shouting through the open door, "Pasel fucking Wright and her fucking aluminum flying fucking go-kart."  
  
The rumble of laughter from his father, and from Doohan, made the anger well up hot in his throat. He pitched his other shoe for symmetry's sake and pounded up the central stair to his room, collapsing backward and sliding down the door as it shut. He pressed clenched fists against his eye sockets, hating the way he could see the bright spots on one side and only blackness on the other.  
  
No knock preceded the turn of the doorknob. Though Spike tried to hold fast, his socks and jeans had no purchase on the hardwood floor, and Vicious pushed him, sliding on his ass, into the room when he opened the door and came in. "What are you, a twelve year old girl?" he needled, but he smiled and made himself comfortable on the bed, hands behind his head, looking down at Spike with sympathy.  
  
"Fuck you," was the best Spike could come up with.  
  
"How much?" Vicious examined a perfectly manicured fingernail, feigning disinterest.  
  
Spike hissed under his breath. "Twenty."  
  
"Twenty -thousand-?"  
  
"Yeah." He stood and stretched his arms above his head, sore from the race and the long ride home. "Don't do the math."  
  
Vicious whistled. "You bet everything you won for the last, what, six months?"  
  
"I said, don't do the math." Spike flopped into the desk chair in front of his computer, pulling up the sports news page on the SSW and wincing at the headline. He read it aloud: "'Another Year Before Spiegel Can Claim Youngest Platinum Cup Winner Title'. Fuck. Watch some sixteen year old beat me next year."  
  
Vicious swung his legs around and sat up. "What's next on the circuit? Red Sands?"  
  
"Yeah. I'm gonna have to ask Dad for the entrance fee. Mao still won't let me work."  
  
"I'd lend it to you, but..."  
  
"I wouldn't take it anyway. It's my own fault for betting on myself," he said, shoving his fingers through his thick hair.  
  
Anthony appeared in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. He looked at his son, smiling slightly, and leaned against the doorjamb. "It's not the end of the –" he spotted the vidscreen and came closer, squinting to read it. "You made the ticker." Not much was left of his jovial tone.  
  
Spike sighed. "Of course I made the ticker. It was a spectacular loss."  
  
"You told me you weren't going to speak to them anymore." Anthony scowled.  
  
"I didn't. I sat in the fucking cockpit until Doohan was ready to drive. I can't keep them from writing about the race, though. It's news."  
  
"I thought you understood how important it was that you not make the news."  
  
Spike sprawled spectacularly in his chair, a portrait of teenage exasperation, and let out a half-groan, half-growl. "For fuck's sake, Dad, the Platinum is the biggest amateur race of the year. I would have made the news if I'd won, too. I would have been the first sixteen-year-old pilot to win a major circuit race in history."  
  
"Language," Anthony intoned, but the rebuke was half-hearted. "You know I don't follow the races. If I had realized what you were getting into, I wouldn't have let you enter."  
  
Letting his head drop back over the edge of the chair, Spike snorted, but did not reply.  
  
"If you hope to work in the Syndicate, you're going to have to start thinking about the consequences of publicity. And judging from what I overheard in the hall, you aren't going to earn a living at them anytime soon."  
  
"I guess that means you won't help me with the Red Sands entry fees," he said, trying for pitiful but only managing mildly pissed off.  
  
Anthony gave his son a hard look and left the room, pulling the door closed.  
  
"Fuck," Spike muttered again under his breath.  
  
Vicious chuckled. "Language," he mimicked, and yelped when Spike's heel connected with his knee.  
  
"Don't make fun of him."  
  
"I'm not. I'm making fun of you. He's right, you know? Give it up." Vicious gave him a hard shove in return.  
  
He raised a fist, but let it drop to his lap and shook his head. "And tell Doohan what? He gave me the Swordfish. What would he say if I told him I was just going to use it as a commuter?"  
  
"Tell him Anthony made you quit. It wouldn't be a lie. Lay low for a few months and we can work for Mao again. Put the Swordfish to use for a little espionage."  
  
Spike let out a joyless laugh. "Sounds like a fucking blast." He stood and gestured toward the door. "I'm going down to talk to him. Might want to make yourself scarce for a while."  
  
"I'll just hang out here," Vicious replied, watching him through half- closed eyelids. "Let me know when you're done begging."  
  
Rolling his eyes, Spike shrugged and left, calling over his shoulder, "Use your own computer to surf for porn."  
  
He clomped down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Anthony sat on his usual stool at the breakfast bar, shuffling papers. At his son's entrance, he gathered them neatly and slid them back in his briefcase.  
  
"Dad, I can't quit. Doohan gave me the ship because I'm good." Spike pulled up a stool and leaned his elbows on the counter, not looking at his father. "I can make a go of this, I just made a stupid mistake."  
  
Anthony patted him on the shoulder, though he ducked sullenly to avoid it. "Spike, Doohan gave you the Swordfish because you're good at flying her, and because it was your sixteenth birthday. There was no implied contract for you to race. And doing it now, so soon after..." – neither of them had ever figured out what to call it, so he pressed on with the meaning clear, "you're just asking for trouble."  
  
"God, have you always been like this, and I just never noticed before? I'm not a baby. You didn't care that I was fending for myself away at school for four years."  
  
"You were away at school for four years so that you could have some anonymity when you returned," Anthony replied.  
  
"So you have always been this way. No wonder Mom got fed up." He knew it was a low blow as soon as it left his lips, but the sting of losing the race, the money, and now the chance to win it back left him bitter enough not to care.  
  
"You have no right to speak on that subject," Anthony replied, his voice low and tight. "No right at all."  
  
Spike rounded on him, leaning in, getting up in his face. "Well, you don't speak on it either, so all I can do is assume."  
  
Anthony drew in a sharp breath and held his son's gaze as best he could. It was still so strange, looking at the almost-matched eyes, and knowing how hard he had to work to see normally with the implant. Something like sympathy softened his features a little, and he let the breath out again in a long sigh. "You're right. Though I don't really think you're in the frame of mind to hear the story right now."  
  
"Dad, listen to yourself. What are you trying to protect me from? When are you going to start treating me like you did before? If you think it's going to convince me to see your point of view, I don't understand why you won't tell me."  
  
"You brought up the subject, not me. It has nothing to do with the racing." He seemed to consider. "Maybe it does. Maybe it has to do with putting the things that give you a momentary high ahead of the things that can keep you alive."  
  
Spike raised his eyebrows. "What, Mom was a junkie?"  
  
"No!" Anthony bit back a harsher retort, and in a moment, went on, "Not that kind of high. The high of control. The high of danger. That's what it is, isn't it?"  
  
Spike shrugged. "I don't psychoanalyze it. I like to do it. I'm good at it."  
  
"Leah..." the older man trailed off, as though saying her name was enough to end the subject. "Not now."  
  
"Yes, now. Tell me." Spike's face was a fierce mask, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the counter. "If you won't, I may as well pack up and go to work for Doohan. You keep things from me. You shelter me like I'm an invalid. If I can't be trusted with what my own mother did, or where she is, you'll never let me amount to anything in the Red Dragon."  
  
His father's shoulder drooped, and he looked out the window with pursed lips, but at last he spoke. "Leah had an affair."  
  
"I know that," Spike muttered.  
  
"Leah had an affair with Harold Pennell."  
  
Spike felt like something had clamped down over his windpipe. "What?" he finally managed. Pennell's name, in the Red Dragon, was synonymous with treachery. "THE Harold Pennell?"  
  
Anthony nodded. "For two years before he was executed."  
  
"That's pretty tawdry, I'll admit." Spike rubbed at his eyes; the nervous gesture was a hard habit to break now that he'd finally gotten used to the feel of the silicone.  
  
"She knew about the plans for the coup. She knew when it was going to go down." Anthony finally turned to face his son, and his face was drawn, almost gray. "She knew about it and she didn't tell me, because telling me would have given away the affair."  
  
Spike's mind reeled. When he was barely ten, Pennell had led an attack on the Van's chamber, with a full regiment of his own subordinates. The Vanguard had managed to save their charges, but at great cost to their own ranks, and the ensuing massacre left the Red Dragon floundering to regain trust among the survivors, as Pennell's net of influence was revealed to be wider than any had imagined possible. In the wake of the bloodletting, the structure of leadership changed, and Mao was appointed the public voice and operator of the Red Dragon, with the Van increasingly sequestered. As he ran through what he knew of the events, a chill crept up his neck, and he stared back at his father when the realization dawned. "She didn't leave," he whispered.  
  
"Left this mortal plane, yes, she did," Anthony replied, barely louder.  
  
"Executed." It was a statement, not a question.  
  
Anthony looked away, out the window over the wide lawn, and nodded.  
  
"They executed her and you still work for them." Bile rose in Spike's throat and he felt his muscles twitch, saw the familiar fading of color from the room as anger welled up from the pit of his stomach.  
  
"If she had told me, I would have forgiven the affair. But she chose her fate." He hung his head, shaking it slightly. "Obviously, this isn't a subject that's widely discussed, or even widely known. So I wouldn't go mouthing off about it. If you're angry, you'll have to be angry and quiet."  
  
"IF I'm angry?" Spike exploded, rising from his seat. "Shit, what would I tell people? Which story is better? My mother fucked a traitor, or my father let his employer kill her for it? Which part of that would I ever repeat to another fucking soul?" He stood shaking for a moment, and then blindly threw a punch, but Anthony caught his fist with an open hand and bore it down to the counter, his eyes blazing.  
  
"I hope you are never betrayed," Anthony hissed, "and I hope you never know the feeling of having your innards ripped out by someone you trust enough to sleep beside them. But if you are, and you act differently than I did, then you can come back and criticize me. Not before."  
  
The black and white tile of the kitchen spun, and he felt consciousness slip away like a tenuous thread unspooling up toward the ceiling.  
  
***  
  
He sat up with a shout, sweat congealing in the cold night air, to find the fire almost dead and the tents closed in their semicircle around him. As he sat, panting, he heard a rustle, and then Bull appeared. He shuffled over and shoved another log in the coals before settling to the ground. "Tell me," he said, not at all groggy.  
  
Spike shook his head. "I've told you before. Last time I was here."  
  
"The argument." Bull nodded, looking thoughtful.  
  
"The argument. The car bomb. The things I never said."  
  
"He hears you when you think those things," Bull replied, and stood again.  
  
"And now I hear him. What he was really saying about betrayal. And in my heart, I think I'm more my mother's son than his," Spike said, and dropped back to the blanket, watching Bull walk back to his tent while flames began to lick the sides of the wood. 


	26. Hoist Them on Their Own Petards

XXVI. Hoist Them on Their Own Petards  
  
When the comm. buzzed, Julia realized she had been sitting, stock-still, for nearly an hour. She'd come home to find her front door repaired, the paint around the new doorjamb almost a match for the yellow that had deepened over the past two years. More new paint gleamed around the bedroom door, and the whole space smelled alien, too clean, stripped of the days before. Even without sympathy for their end, the idea of men dying in the hallway made her shiver as though they still blew through the room, searching for a way out of the mortal plane.  
  
She saw Vicious' code on the screen and composed the mask of normalcy on her face before answering.  
  
"Where are you?" he said, almost snarling.  
  
She felt a nervous jolt, wondering what she'd done to displease him. "At the apartment."  
  
"I'm coming over," he declared, and disconnected.  
  
She filled the waiting time brewing a pot of coffee, just to have something to smell besides the antiseptic cleaner and paint fumes. Barely five minutes passed before he swept through the door, hanging his coat and scabbard on the rack without a word. He turned to face her, and she straightened her back, struggling to keep a neutral expression.  
  
"What's wrong?" she asked, knowing the question was inadequate.  
  
He curled his lip. "I was publicly humiliated by the Van. For speaking the truth – truth they know themselves, but will not admit, since the thought did not spring from their rotted brains."  
  
She couldn't help the wave of relief that washed over her, knowing his anger was not directed at her, and she held out a hand to him as he crossed to join her. "What did they say?"  
  
He shrugged and put an arm around her waist. "That I am impetuous and ignorant."  
  
"Neither of those statements is true," she replied, honestly.  
  
"I know that. But in this, as in all things, they consider their opinion to be fact. And others will take it that way as well. I wanted to cut them all down where they sat, but instead I will have to pander to their whims and dance whatever step they assign me in order to maintain my position." He sighed and then pressed his face to her hair, inhaling deeply. "I needed a distraction. I needed you."  
  
She raised her eyebrows and slid a hand down his back. "I hope I'm more than a distraction."  
  
"Mm," he replied, pulling her body against his own. "I hope you will be. I am without a second in my team. Mao's direction can safely be discarded as ignorant advice, given where it got me. I want you. Not as my second, but as my partner." Before she could answer, he kissed her roughly, swiping at her tongue with his own, one hand wrapped around the back of her neck while the other lifted her skirt. He drew back and grinned. "Let them see what the Silver King and the Golden Queen can accomplish together."  
  
She would not have been able to put into words the way his offer rang every bell of her ambitions. The years scraping out an existence as a girl taught her that power meant safety and comfort, even if it also required its own defense. Finally, his compliments and his reliance on her came to fruition, and to be treated as an equal was both an aphrodisiac and as much a declaration of love as he'd ever been able to give.  
  
She smiled in return and hooked her fingers through his beltloops. "The Silver King," she murmured, moving coyly backward so she stood at arm's length from him. "I like the sound of that. I accept. The alliance ought to be consummated immediately."  
  
He responded with a low rumble in his chest and an attack, pushing her against the wall. His hands slid beneath her skirt and hoisted her, lifting her up until she was supported by his hips between his body and the cool, smooth plaster. She clung to his shoulders while he loosed his clothing and drove into her; he bit her neck and then captured her mouth with his own so that every breath forced out of her was shared with him.  
  
In the pocket of his coat, his comm. began an insistent buzz, but he shook his head without breaking the kiss and kept on, fingers digging into the backs of her thighs. She couldn't stifle a moan when the pulsing shudders began, and he followed soon after her, crushing the last of her air away with a final thrust. Black spots swam in her vision as he released her, and she clung to his arm to keep from stumbling.  
  
"Mine and mine alone," he whispered in her ear. "My perfect and terrible Queen."  
  
Her radiant smile in return seemed to light the room. "I like the sound of that, too."  
  
***  
  
The message from Mao gave little clue as to the reason for the summons, but he'd said that all the teams were to assemble in the Van's chamber again, so Julia accompanied Vicious to the tower, a little nervous but still euphoric. Her entrance drew a raised eyebrow from Mao.  
  
Mato, Lao and Lin were there, as well as Shin – still bandaged and bruised, but looking stronger. He kept his head low, looking up from beneath his eyebrows whenever anyone spoke, clearly out of his element and most likely suffering the pangs of withdrawal. He shifted from one foot to the other until Lin's hand on his shoulder made him still.  
  
Mao left his place in front of the mezzanine and crossed to meet Vicious and Julia.  
  
"What are you doing here?" he whispered to Julia.  
  
Vicious answered for her. "She is my second. The instruction not to choose her had disastrous consequences. I will not risk them again."  
  
Mao frowned, but nodded, and returned to the mezzanine, speaking in hushed voices with Sou Long. Julia watched anxiously as the three heads of the Van bent together, but they did not question her presence when the session began. Vicious took her elbow and pulled her forward so she stood abreast of him, and she saw the corners of his mouth upturned, so slightly no one else would have noticed.  
  
"Our interrogation of Marcus Britt has produced significant results," Sou Long said when the murmurs of conversation died down. "Since he claims his actions were driven by a desire for the Red Dragon to be triumphant, it has been relatively easy to barter his continued survival for information about his co-conspirators. It may come as a surprise to some of you to learn that he did, indeed, conspire with the White Tiger, fancying himself a double agent of the Dragon."  
  
Julia saw Vicious' jaw clench with the effort of keeping his words inside.  
  
Sou went on, "The White Tiger is planning a summit of its leadership from around the planet in three weeks' time. They sought, and obtained, a producer of their own to combat our distribution of Red Eye. However, they do not appear to have any plans for its improvement on a scale with our own, so even if they were to slip from our grasp in the coming months, our long term goals will make the Red Dragon the victor.  
  
"Britt claims to know the location of this summit, here in Tharsis City, and we will punish the White Tiger for its failure to behave in a manner befitting a businessman when it takes place. Until then, it is critical that all of you conduct yourselves as though you do not have this knowledge, nor any knowledge of their supplier. Fortunately, the events of the past few days have been narrow in scope, though a great cost to us as an organization, and the ISSP seems to be genuinely ignorant as well."  
  
Wang Long took up where Sou left off. "The ISSP is occupied with an uprising on Titan, which we mentioned earlier today. From what we have been able to learn, civilian workers at the Titan weapons research facility led a rebellion against the military scientists and police. It is suggested that human experimentation with weapons, either chemical or biological, takes place there. In any event, the conflict grows more severe with each hour, and our sources at the ISSP fear it may become a war rather than a skirmish. This works to our advantage, giving us time to lull them into complacency while their attentions are focused elsewhere."  
  
Julia's head swam. She understood only half of what the Van said, not having been present for the previous meetings, and she tried to catalogue her questions for Vicious while still paying attention to the discussion. Irritation at how much he had not told her dampened her mood.  
  
"We understand Yenrai-san has spoken with Spike Spiegel," Ping Long said, after a few moments' silence. "His full report would best be made to everyone here."  
  
Her heart skipped a beat when Mao nodded. She'd forgotten, for a few hours.  
  
"I did indeed speak with him. He is gravely injured, alive solely through the efforts of Julia Vail."  
  
She blushed a little, both at the acknowledgment and the formal use of her full name, and inclined her head to Mao.  
  
"He cannot yet return to Tharsis," Mao continued, "But he is not in a city, and he intends to return within a few weeks' time, ready to resume his duties. If I need to call him back sooner, I have the means to reach him. However, given the fact that the reach of Britt's deception extended beyond the Red Dragon, I believe the use of our comm. channels with him should be restricted to crises, and nothing more."  
  
Ping Long appeared satisfied and sat back, but Wang shook his head. "Now is hardly the time for us to be without a leader of our street forces," he said in a disapproving tone.  
  
"We might use it to our advantage," Mao replied. "Both as leverage if the ISSP looks at us too closely, since we can claim the only casualty in the skirmish was our own, and as a surprise show of force upon his return."  
  
"If he is able to show force when he returns," Wang reminded him.  
  
Mao let out a soft laugh. "Spiegel shows force when he sleeps. If we allow him to return on his own schedule, there will be no need to worry about his capacity."  
  
Wang sighed. "Nonetheless, he must return within three weeks' time. The summit is set for the first weekend of next month. It may be wise to inform him of the time he has available to him. And when you do, inform him as well that our displeasure at his absence has not abated."  
  
Vicious cleared his throat. "With respect, your Eminence, that displeasure is better aimed at the cause of his absence."  
  
All three members of the Van turned their narrow gaze to him. Sou replied, "Our anger at Marcus Britt is tempered by rational thought. His punishment will be no less severe when his usefulness has been exhausted."  
  
Vicious bowed low in response, but Julia could see his knuckles whiten as he clenched his fists by his side.  
  
Sou raised a hand as he sat back. "You are dismissed, to go about your daily activities as you see fit. Show your presence and intercept what shipments and sales you can, to keep the White Tiger convinced of the necessity of their planned meeting. But resist the urge to dig too deeply. If they are focused on the barrel of the Red Dragon's gun, they will not look for the knife in its other claw."  
  
Outside the chamber, the group reassembled, and now Julia felt the curious glances of the other men. A Vanguard led Shin away, and Lin watched after him with his jaw taut and his hands jammed in his pockets.  
  
"How is he?" she asked.  
  
Lin gave her a grateful look. "Sick, but getting better. He wants a chance to work with me. He's confined until he can prove he has mastered his addiction. So some good has come of all this, no matter how small and insignificant to anyone but me."  
  
"Vicious, I know the reason Julia is here, but perhaps you would like to tell the rest of the group yourself." Mao's expression remained neutral, but he watched his protégé closely.  
  
Vicious nodded, and she saw the small smile play across his lips again. "I know that now is hardly the time for me to defy your direction, Mao, but I felt there was no one else better suited to work with me and lead my team. Julia is my second in name, but my partner to the rest of you. From here on in, we lead together."  
  
"Congratulations," Lin murmured to her. She smiled her thanks.  
  
"Very well," Mao replied, after a few seconds. "This decision pleases me, even though it is an act of defiance." He put a hand on Julia's arm. "I will expect you to bring both balance and a steady hand to your position."  
  
"You have my guarantee," she said, and her pride came through clearly in her voice.  
  
She walked to the elevators with Vicious in silence, smiling to herself, and when the doors shut behind them, he pulled her into a kiss that lasted until the bell tolled for their stop. 


	27. Angel of Oblivion

XXVII. Angel of Oblivion  
  
Pale gray edged the horizon, though the rest of the sky was still dark, when Vicious' comm. vibrated off the edge of the bedside table. He grumbled and reluctantly rolled away from Julia's sleeping form.  
  
"This had better be important," he muttered when he saw Mao's code. He hit the audio-only key before answering. "What?"  
  
"You met our Red Eye manufacturer through a freight pilot known as Long Haul, did you not?" Mao sounded as exhausted as Vicious felt.  
  
"Manfred. Yes. Why?"  
  
Mao cleared his throat. "He set up the distribution for the White Tiger."  
  
The last vestiges of sleep drained away, and Vicious sat up, holding the blankets over Julia with his free hand so the cold wouldn't wake her. "Are you certain?"  
  
"Without a doubt. Moreover, he made the overture to them the same day you returned from Ganymede. They knew about our production facility almost as soon as we did." When Vicious didn't respond, Mao went on. "Needless to say, the Van holds you responsible in some measure. But I have convinced them that you would be best suited to deal with the problem."  
  
He sighed. "I can think of a simple and efficient way to deal with Manfred."  
  
"I am sure we are thinking the same thing," Mao replied with a humorless laugh.  
  
"I'll leave this morning," Vicious said, and Julia turned and opened her eyes. "In a few hours." He smiled down at her.  
  
"I wanted you to know about it before anyone else spoke to you, but there is no need for that much urgency."  
  
"I would think everything is urgent at this point. Unless you mean to imply I do not need to be here for the White Tiger summit." Five days remained before the date of the meeting; he'd begun to wonder when Spike would return, but having Julia at his side for the past weeks – during the mostly quiet days and the nights that followed – lessened the impact of his absence.  
  
Mao seemed to hear his thoughts. "I'm calling Spike in this morning," he said. "When he confirms he is on his way, you'll be cleared to leave. In the unlikely event something happens ahead of schedule, it would not be fair to Julia for both of you to be away."  
  
Vicious chuckled. "You do not express much confidence in your son, Mao."  
  
"In the matter of an ambush assassination, I do not have much confidence in him," Mao admitted. "You and Spike are both needed here."  
  
"Is my target aware of his situation?" Vicious ran a hand down Julia's back as she turned away from him, burying her head in her pillow.  
  
"Our source for this information obtained Manfred's identity – or rather, his transport code name – from the sealed evidence files of the Ganymede police after a shipment was intercepted. Through our intervention, we've convinced the police to leave him for us to deal with. So he suspects nothing, and continues to receive his commission payments. You're to be at the chamber at ten o'clock to discuss it further. And you are to come alone."  
  
Vicious frowned and got out of bed, padding into the bathroom. "Julia was with me when I saw Manfred last time, in the guise of my wife," he said when his voice was muffled by the closed door. "He will be suspicious if she does not accompany me now." He knew it was a bald-faced lie; when he left Ganymede, he'd warned that he would never bring Julia back, lest Manfred forget their exchange was complete. But he got a thrill that bordered on sensual when he imagined giving her the opportunity to end Manfred's life – and watching her carry it out.  
  
"You defied my personal direction regarding your appointment of Julia, probably because you knew I would forgive it. But an act of defiance against the Van's direction would jeopardize your future in a way I can only describe as final," Mao replied. "I will see you at ten. Please extend my apologies to Julia and assure her that this does not reflect on her performance."  
  
Vicious snorted. "Of course not. It reflects on mine."  
  
"You are nothing if not perceptive," Mao said darkly. "Go back to sleep." He hung up.  
  
Julia knocked at the bathroom door. "What's going on?" she mumbled, trailing off into a yawn.  
  
He emerged from the room and kissed the top of her head. "I have an errand to run later today. Mao informs me I'm supposed to go alone." He took her hand, pulling her back toward the bedroom.  
  
"What errand?" She collapsed back into bed, curling against him as he pulled the blankets up.  
  
"Manfred sold us out. Double-crossed us with the White Tiger. So I will pay him a visit and repay his kindness."  
  
She raised her eyebrows, though she couldn't keep her eyes open. "How did he double-cross us?"  
  
"He put the White Tiger in contact with the same supplier, right after we paid our visit to him." Vicious paused, thinking. "Which explains why we have had so little to do these past few weeks."  
  
"You're going to have to fill in that blank for me," Julia mumbled.  
  
He nodded. "Just before – actually, the same day that you came to the chamber for the first meeting as my partner – the Van announced they'd taken control of the manufacturing facility. Once Ichido took over the accounting, the White Tiger would not have been able to arrange new purchases. Their well dried up."  
  
She sighed and draped an arm over his stomach. "When do you have to leave? Why do you have to go alone?"  
  
"I will find out at ten why I have to go alone. I will leave as soon as we know Spike is on his way home. Mao is calling him in."  
  
She felt a twinge of something – almost anxiety – at the thought of Spike coming back. "How long will you be gone?" she asked, just to avoid the silence.  
  
"Two days, I would estimate. Home in plenty of time for the festivities."  
  
She nodded. "Wake me before you go to the chamber," she murmured against his chest, already drifting off.  
  
"Oh, I will," he whispered.  
  
***  
  
Mao paced his office until the city clock chimed nine; it was only six o'clock in Alva City, but he had to have an answer from Spike before he returned to the Van's chamber at ten.  
  
He dialed Spike's code and waited while it rang. He'd given up on getting a response when a woman's face appeared on the viewscreen, young and dark.  
  
"Yes?" she asked, eyebrows raised.  
  
"You must be Astrid," Mao said, as casually as he could.  
  
"I am. And who are you?"  
  
He nodded and smiled. "Mao Yenrai. Deeply indebted to you for your generosity to Spike."  
  
Any trace of civility left her expression. "Spike is... sleeping. I can have him call you when he wakes."  
  
He opened his mouth to protest, but remembered Spike's admonishment for contacting her husband in the first place, and said instead, "Please do. And please tell him it is urgent. He must return my call within the hour."  
  
She sighed and nodded, and he watched her scrutinize the comm. for a moment before she found the disconnect key and the screen went dark.  
  
***  
  
Astrid dropped the comm. on top of Spike's duffel bag and shielded her eyes against the rising sun, watching her husband spar with her childhood friend at the edge of the bluff. It still amazed her that Spike had been up and training after less than a week at their camp; his excellent physical shape before the injuries had no doubt given him as much of a boost in recovery as the medicines Bull concocted. She knew Mao's call would be as unwelcome to Spike as it had been to her. Their strange little foursome, grown close and comfortable while Spike and Mayan discovered their mutual passions for martial arts and old music, boosted her spirits, and she longed for at least a few more days, since his leaving would herald her own return to Alva City. Bull continued to assure her she was at least a week away from giving birth, but she lay awake most nights uncomfortable, the child he claimed was a boy kicking like he'd learned Jeet Kun Do by blood rights. As much as she longed to be done with the pregnancy, she knew that this interlude of normalcy and friendship would never come again, for any of them.  
  
Mayan told her about the visit from the Syndicate the night he returned from the city. He so rarely issued an edict, rather than a suggestion, but that night he made clear that Spike stayed only because she deserved the right to say a proper farewell. When their child was born, she'd promised to have no more contact with him. She bit back a wave of sadness that threatened to turn to tears and walked toward the two men.  
  
Spike saw her coming, and in acknowledging her, missed a jab from Mayan that was too late to halt. He yelped when Mayan's fist connected with his shoulder and doubled over – but when Mayan bent to offer an apology, he delivered a blow to the gut of his own and then cackled with laughter. She rolled her eyes.  
  
"End of the round, you two," she called out.  
  
"First punch either of us landed in an hour," Spike said with a chuckle, clapping Mayan on the back.  
  
Mayan nodded. "You might say we're fairly matched."  
  
She looked between the two of them, thinking how much more true the statement was than would be polite to admit. "Spike, I'm sorry, but Mao Yenrai just called, and wanted you to call him back within the hour."  
  
The smile faded slowly, and he finally nodded. "Thank you for answering it. Even though I can't think of anyone I want to talk to less, right now."  
  
"I know. But he gave me the impression it couldn't wait." She squeezed Mayan's hand as he walked past her toward the camp, leaving her with Spike.  
  
"It never can, with him. With them. This was a reprieve no one else in my position has ever gotten." His eyes glittered. "Astrid, I know what happens now. Mayan told me."  
  
She bit her lip and looked away, but the admission had done its damage and a single tear rolled down her cheek. She couldn't find the words to reply.  
  
He put his arms around her, and his wiry frame still felt familiar after all the years apart, though she knew her body must have seemed like that of a stranger. "This was also a chance to know you again that I thought I would never have," he said gently. "Better to have had it than not. Better to know you're happy." He pulled back and lifted her chin with a finger. "Mayan is more of a man than I will ever be." He seemed about to say more, but instead simply smiled and dropped his hand.  
  
She swallowed hard. "You'd better make that call." She kissed him on the cheek, her hand lingering on his much-improved shoulder, and then followed after Mayan.  
  
Spike walked to the edge of the bluff and dropped to the ground, looking at the message notes he'd ignored for the last two weeks. Knowing it was procrastination, he hit the playback.  
  
Mao's face appeared first. "Spike, you must contact me as soon as possible. You can put your suspicions toward Vicious to rest."  
  
He shook his head, skipping forward to the message from Vicious himself.  
  
"Spike – Britt has been arrested. It is safe for you to return home. I cannot promise you the same accommodations you had when you left, but Annie did say you were paid up front for your rent." The thin line of his mouth arced in a small smile. "It would be a shame if you could not tell Marcus farewell before he is dispatched."  
  
Spike sighed. He'd avoided the message for two long weeks, afraid Julia had disclosed his indiscretion, but judging from Vicious' demeanor, she had not. Though he still dreaded having to face her, some comfort came from the fact that at least they shared the secret.  
  
He dialed Mao's code while he toweled the perspiration from his face and neck, letting the sunlight warm his bare shoulders. Mao picked up almost immediately.  
  
"Spike. Please give Astrid my inadequate thanks for relaying my message."  
  
Spike nodded, but the mention of her name left a lump in his throat that prevented him speaking.  
  
Mao sighed and went on. "I'm sorry to do this, but the time you said you would be absent is running out, and several serious matters have come to a head today. I need you back in Tharsis City before nightfall."  
  
"You're lucky I feel up to fulfilling that request," Spike grumbled.  
  
"Let me be clear: it is not a request. It is an order, and it comes from the Van, not me. Vicious is being dispatched to Ganymede. The reason why you are needed here will have to be discussed when you arrive."  
  
"I'll leave before noon. That will put me home by the dinner hour." Spike rubbed his eyes and looked out over the view of the rocky terrain below, trying to memorize it.  
  
Mao nodded. "Plan to meet with the Van at six; I believe their schedule is open. If anything changes, I will contact you. Otherwise, I will see you then."  
  
"Forgive me if I'm not looking forward to it," Spike replied, and hung up.  
  
He turned and looked back toward camp, watching Astrid and Mayan preparing breakfast, the wind over the top of the bluff buffeting the open flap of Bull's tent, vaporizing the blue wisps of smoke that drifted out. He'd borrowed a short lifetime here, steeped in memories, a tantalizing glimpse of what his life might have been if he'd chosen a different road, and yet he could summon no regret when he remembered Julia. One act of defiance remained to be completed: a last attempt to ask her to justify her choice, a desperate plea for her to reconsider. Her answer would dictate the rest of his days, and knowing it was out of his hands brought him some semblance of peace. He squared his shoulders and went to make his farewells.  
  
***  
  
Vicious shook his head to clear the haze of the solitary flight, watching the last Ganymede guide ring glide past. As with every assignment to play the angel of oblivion, this one left his mind mostly empty, and he'd filled it with thoughts of a future where he and Julia, with Spike as their might and their anchor, could finally avenge the deaths of fathers and grow accustomed to power and comfort. Actions spoke loudest: giving stability seemed the only one worth pursuing when it came to his friends and partners. He smiled to himself as he passed through the gate and set his course toward Manfred's apartment building.  
  
After a wide circle, verifying that Manfred's car was not parked at the building, he touched down on the roof, parking the craft far enough away from the edge that it would be invisible from the ground below. Out of routine, he checked his store of weaponry – throwing knives holstered at his waist and inside the lapels of his coat, a coiled garrote in the left pocket. The katana, sharpened until it would split a falling leaf, hung familiar at his side. He'd left his antique Sig Sauer, wrapped in an oil rag and last fired at the range, in its box in Julia's apartment. Whether the omission was superstition or something more primal, he'd watched Spike survive too many bullets to rely upon them for dispensing death.  
  
The lockpick kit, with its battery-operated surge generator, made entry into the building almost too easy. He smiled and nodded to a woman who passed by, holding the hand of a small child, outside Manfred's door; she avoided his look and he watched her until she boarded the elevator. Satisfied she had not seen his face well enough to remember it, he took out the picks again and let himself in.  
  
Only the ticking of the clock and the muffled noise from outside disturbed the silence of the apartment. Leaving the lights off, Vicious prowled the rooms, flipping through the mail on the kitchen table, curling a lip at a stack of moldy coffee cups in the sink. According to the clock, it was ten past eight – Monday night, and if he were still a creature of habit, Manfred would be home within the hour. Satisfied he knew the layout, Vicious settled on the couch, arranging his coat and scabbard, to wait.  
  
He couldn't help seeing Julia when he looked from the couch to the bedroom door. The image was burned into his memory: her naked form luminescent, the door closing. Right here, on this spot, he thought, I waited out the night for her. And he slept beside her. Conscious or not, he slept beside her. No man who would take that from me, even if I offered it, deserves to live. He'd barely listened to the Van, prattling on earlier that morning about the need for discretion and how visible it would be if he and Julia both disappeared from Tharsis City, even for just a few days. She'd kept him in bed until he was nearly late for the meeting, and even before he reached the tower, the political motives for murder had twisted themselves into a penance for what he'd asked her to do here instead.  
  
The rattle of keys in the lock drew no more than a slightly raised eyebrow from him. He folded his hands neatly in his lap and looked expectantly toward the door, eyes half-closed in anticipation of the lights coming on. They did, and Manfred lumbered through the doorway, unobservant and apparently half-drunk. The moment of entry was always the most charged with danger: would the target be alone? On guard or off? Manfred shut the door and reached to bolt it – and then froze.  
  
He turned slowly, one hand going to the small of his back. Vicious watched the hand and nothing else, wound tight and ready to twist himself sideways if a weapon came out. He heard the wet rush of an exhale, and the hand appeared again, empty. "Vicioush!" Manfred burst out.  
  
Vicious smiled and met his eye. "Manfred. I was in the neighborhood."  
  
Manfred barked a nervous laugh. "You are not in the neighborhood, you are in my apartment."  
  
"I hope you will forgive my trespass," Vicious said, in a voice as heavy and malleable as mercury. "We are but one degree from being intimate, after all."  
  
"What?" Manfred frowned and took a few steps forward, but checked himself. "Oh. Right. How ish Julia?" He tried a half-smile in return.  
  
Vicious stood, sleight of hand keeping his coat over the scabbard. "She sends her regards."  
  
"Are you looking to buy?" Manfred asked.  
  
"To buy? No, Long Haul. Remember, we are the sellers now. I hear our agreement has treated you quite handsomely."  
  
The faint sheen of perspiration showed on Manfred's brow, and he stammered a little before answering. His one eye darted back and forth, and then trained on the floor, the telltale sign of a liar searching his brain for a plausible falsehood. "I do all right. The commission is good."  
  
Vicious nodded and grinned. "Naturally, the only thing better than a good commission is two good commissions." He began to close the gap between them, stifling a laugh at the way Manfred's head jerked at his words, and the way he seemed rooted to where he stood.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," he huffed, eye wide. "You got exactly what you came here for lasht time."  
  
Vicious stopped an arms' length away, and the grin slid from his face, though his eyes remained bright. "I did indeed, Manfred. So did you. But you could not resist offering a hand to the White Tiger, as well. What did they give you in return? Certainly nothing as good as my trade."  
  
Manfred drew himself up. "I never shaid anything about your deal being exclushive."  
  
"It did not need saying," Vicious replied. He cocked his head to one side. "It pains me, to tell you the truth. To know that you hold Julia in such low regard."  
  
"It hash nothing to do with her," Manfred grumbled. "Hash to do with money. Your gang rivalry ish your own problem."  
  
The cold smile crept over Vicious' face again. "I have a confession, myself, Long Haul. This has nothing to do with your greed or my gang rivalry." The katana hissed and sang while it arced through the air, no more than a flash of silver; Manfred looked down at it, the point already through the leather of his coat and the silk shirt beneath, and then back up at Vicious with a mixture of terror and fury.  
  
"Don't threaten me, boy." His voice shook, despite the bravado.  
  
"This is not a threat."  
  
"Then what do you want?"  
  
Vicious shrugged. "You put your hands on her. If you had been properly grateful, I might have suffered you to live."  
  
His expression did not change while he drove the sword forward until it stuck, with a thud, in the wall behind Manfred. Letting go of the grip with one hand, he wrapped his long fingers around the dying man's throat, lifting his face so he could see that rheumy eye, flashing pain and confusion and finally nothing. When the last breath and faint pulse had faded, he let the body fall, retrieving his sword and wiping it across Manfred's pantleg before putting it back in the scabbard. He stood looking down for a long moment, and then laughed.  
  
"To tell you the absolute truth," he said conversationally, "I would not suffer any man who touched her to live."  
  
***  
  
A/N: Couldn't have gotten inside Vicious' killing head without the help of Einsturzende Neubauten. Listen close, you can hear it. 


	28. Anne of the Thousand Days

A/N: I never promised it would be pretty. I think I promised it wouldn't.  
  
cowgirlnoir, this one is for you and because of you. You were my beacon and my navigator. "Thank you" doesn't suffice.  
  
XXVIII. Anne of the Thousand Days  
  
Spike stared at himself in the mirror of the tower men's room, propped on the heels of his hands against the sink. The opulent surroundings only served to make his rumpled, dusty suit look worse, and he knew it probably smelled like – well, like a man who'd been wearing it for two weeks. He'd gotten used to it at least a week ago.  
  
There was no time to return to Annie's and change, though – by the wall clock, it was five of six. Breakfast had turned into brunch, Astrid fussing over him eating another helping before he began the walk back to the Swordfish. Mayan tried to one-up him with Bruce Lee trivia, and failed. Bull had little to say, but he smiled through the meal and took Spike into his tent afterward to show him the sand painting: a red bird with a black-green crest, wings outstretched, dividing the circle around it into quadrants of night sky, cityscape, water and fire. "You touch all of these things, Swimming Bird," he said, "and they mold you when their resistance is stronger than your will." Spike could hear the rest without it being spoken. Maintain the balance. Three words that had sent him back to Tharsis five years earlier. Words that had meant, to that young man, something altogether different than they did now.  
  
He ran the tap and washed his hands and face, giving up before he started on any attempt to improve his hair or clothing. Won't be close enough for them to smell me, at least, he thought. He cracked his neck and stretched, feeling the last of his vertebrae realign after the flight, and left the bathroom.  
  
Mao stood in the hallway outside with his hands folded behind his back. He looked Spike from head to toe and smirked a little. "You will, at least, evoke some sympathy in that condition."  
  
"Oh, I planned it," Spike replied, but his tone was more wry than joking. He squared his shoulders and waited for Mao to lead.  
  
They walked the long hall and passed through the double doors, the Vanguard outside bowing and casting sidelong glances at Spike and his more-dirt-than- cloth suit. Spike was surprised to see the chamber completely empty, save for the Van themselves. Mao gestured to the seat of attention, and Spike climbed the step gingerly, bowing low before seating himself and looking up at the mezzanine. Sou Long leaned forward and looked back down at him with a faint smile.  
  
"It is apparent you rushed to return to us, Spike Spiegel," he said lightly. "We will not keep you long from a shower and a change of clothes."  
  
It took all of Spike's self-control to keep from fidgeting.  
  
The smile disappeared, and his tone gained gravity when he went on. "Your absence has been a hardship to the Red Dragon. We expect that your gratitude for your reprieve will be demonstrated in extra efforts now that you have returned. We also expect that there will not be another instance, regardless of the catalyst, in which you remain alive and out of contact for any period of time. Your knowledge and position do not permit you the luxury of absence without leave."  
  
The warning could not have been clearer. Spike inclined his head and replied, "I am grateful for your leniency."  
  
Sou Long nodded. "Three matters concern you of which we believe you have heard little. The first is the matter of the ISSP's shift in focus. A war has broken out on Titan, and the Martian Army has recalled almost all of its reserve soldiers from the police ranks. There is talk of citizen conscription in the coming weeks. This war, and the reduction in force of active police officers, provides us an opportunity to strike at the White Tiger while it is weak without fear of ISSP retribution."  
  
"I heard a little news of Titan in Alva City," Spike said with a frown. He'd stopped for cigarettes and smoked half a pack to make up for two weeks' deprivation while he read one of the local papers. "I assume our own contacts in the ISSP are deployed, as well?"  
  
"Very perceptive," Wang Long replied. "Fortunately, we have been able to obtain solid information, and solid contacts with other informants, through our continued interrogation of Marcus Britt."  
  
"Britt is still alive?" Spike said, incredulous.  
  
Sou Long held up a hand before he spoke. "Britt is necessary until after this weekend. Which brings us to the second matter of concern. Britt disclosed, and we were able to confirm, that a summit of White Tiger leadership from around Mars will gather here in Tharsis City on Saturday. They intend to discuss how to break our hold over Red Eye distribution. You, Vicious and Mato, with your teams, will attend the summit. You will relieve the White Tiger of its duplicitous patriarchs. Make room for new blood with proper respect for the rules of business."  
  
Spike blinked. "Where is Vicious now?" He knew, but didn't want to reveal that Mao had spoken of it over the comm. channel.  
  
Ping Long leaned forward. "On Ganymede. The third matter of which you must be apprised."  
  
Spike raised an eyebrow and waited for more.  
  
"Vicious' demeanor in the weeks of your absence has been of some concern to us," Ping Long said. "He shows little regard for our direction and his behavior borders on impudence. The White Tiger was purchasing Red Eye from the same distributor with whom he made contact, and they were ushered into that agreement by his original contact on Ganymede."  
  
"Manfred?" Spike asked. He'd never thought of the old cripple as capable of much more than blowing his earnings on cheap whiskey; the enterprise of it surprised him. "And Vicious is there now," he went on, piecing it together.  
  
"Yes," Ping Long replied. "Hopefully, he will be successful in his assignment. We are also hopeful your return will restore some balance to his mind and his behavior."  
  
"I don't tell him what to do," Spike said with a sneer, forgetting his manners for a moment.  
  
"No, we do," Sou Long said in a brittle tone. "Part of your task, now that you have returned, will be to give him perspective on his personal ambition. The three teams will function as one at the summit. We remind you that you are now in a position parallel with Vicious. We expect you to check him if he strays from our orders."  
  
Forcing a long exhale through his nose, Spike thought a dozen things and said nothing. A long minute passed without anything further from the Van, and he finally stood, bowing low again. "I have returned in your service," he offered in his most formal tone. "Neither I, nor Vicious, will disappoint you."  
  
"Be careful to promise only what you can guarantee," Sou Long warned. "Yenrai-san will answer your more specific questions. We will see you next on Friday afternoon." The three sat back again, and Mao bowed low himself before turning to leave the chamber. Spike lingered for a moment, looking at the shadows of the Dragon's three heads, and then followed him out, lost in thought.  
  
Spike refused a ride from Mao and smoked the four blocks to Annie's on autopilot, sifting through the unspoken undertones of the Van's directive. They had never granted him a private audience before; even after the promotion, it was always Vicious' place to speak with them, and Spike's to listen, either to Vicious' repetition of their instructions, or in the meeting without participation. He'd hoped to fade from their radar with his absence, but instead they had assigned him a greater importance by virtue of what went on while he was away. It was a bad combination – their increased reliance on him, and his apathy toward the business of the Syndicate in general. Not even the news of Vicious falling into disfavor meant much; he had come home for one reason, and it loomed before him now, only a change of clothing and an unavoidable conversation with Annie in the way.  
  
Through the raised blinds of the front door, he saw Annie sitting and talking with Lin, and hesitated before going through. Another delay, another half-welcome distraction. He shouldered the door and waved to her. She sat bolt upright, wide-eyed.  
  
Lin turned on his stool and grinned. "Spike!" He stood and held out a hand.  
  
Spike crossed the room and ignored the hand, embracing him instead. "Lin. I hope you've had an easy time of it." He stepped back and smiled.  
  
Lin nodded. "As business goes, I have. Shin is recovering well. He hopes to join me, when his health improves. That road may be long."  
  
"Give him my regards, and any luck I can spare," Spike replied. "I'm glad to hear it." He wasn't, but it didn't matter: Lin seemed happy, and he didn't feel like spreading his own discontent.  
  
"You've been to see the Van already, I assume?" Lin sat back down.  
  
"Just now, yeah. I'd stay and chat, but I really need a shower."  
  
Lin raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't going to say anything."  
  
Spike chuckled and shook his head. "Politeness should have limits. Annie, I'll be back to talk to you."  
  
"Welcome home," she called after him as he went through the door to the stairwell, making a quick escape.  
  
He'd chosen civilian clothes – the sherpa-collared bomber, the plain white shirt, the jeans – in homage to Saturday night pool games in better days, and out of a conscious desire to distance himself from the trappings of the Syndicate. Freshly shaven, teeth feeling slick and foreign, the last of his weeks in the wilderness slid away too, and he felt once more like a creature of the pavement and the high rises. He came back through the storeroom to find Lin gone, and Annie waiting for him with two Old Fashioned glasses and an expensive bottle of Scotch.  
  
"You look five years younger," she said with a smile.  
  
The corners of his mouth turned up and he rounded the counter to sit across from her. "That's the secret to age and respectability? Grime?"  
  
She laughed out loud. "I have missed you, Spike. More than words can tell."  
  
"I've missed you too, Annie," he sighed. "Not much of anyone else, though."  
  
She poured the Scotch and watched him without replying.  
  
"Do you remember Laughing Bull?" he asked. Mao's knowledge of Bull had surprised him, but Annie and Ming had accompanied Spike and his father on a summer trip to Alva City when he was perhaps thirteen.  
  
She beamed. "Of course! So that's where you were."  
  
"Getting high under the stars," he replied, smirking. "Astrid was there."  
  
She arched an eyebrow.  
  
"Pregnant and about to burst. With her husband. Nice guy, runs a spice shop in the city." He toyed with his glass.  
  
"I'm... sorry. That must have been a bit of a shock," she said gently.  
  
He bit his lip and shook his head. "At first. It was good to see her again, though. One more time."  
  
Annie frowned and put a hand on his arm. "Spike, there's no reason to walk away from the people who matter just because your future didn't turn out like you hoped."  
  
"Nice guy," he repeated with a raw laugh, "but not a fan of the Syndicate, or of Mao sending some goons to get to me through him. Told me very nicely not to come around anymore once I left."  
  
She sighed and gave him a sympathetic look.  
  
"So. Been a little strange around here?" he asked blithely, after downing his glass in one draught.  
  
"Strange, yes. Lonely." She sipped at her own drink.  
  
"Why lonely?"  
  
"Everybody's laying low. Vicious has been staying at Julia's since he named her his second, so she hasn't been around much. Mao is busy. Business is slow."  
  
Spike gaped. "Julia is Vicious' second?"  
  
"Yeah. That ruffled Mao's feathers, but he let it slide. I think he hoped she would keep him in line." She smirked.  
  
He nodded. "Everybody dances around it, but nobody will say exactly what Vicious' problem is."  
  
"Vicious' problem is no different from the one he's always had. He thinks he knows better than everyone else. He has something in common with his best friend," she said, winking at him.  
  
Spike winced inwardly at the use of the phrase. "Has he really stepped out of line?"  
  
"If you consider telling the Van they're ignorant to be stepping out of line, yes, he has. And even though he didn't have anything to do with it, that freighter pilot dealing with the White Tiger didn't do anything to improve his situation." She went to refill his glass, but he held up a hand.  
  
"Later," he said, rising from his seat. "I have somewhere I need to go."  
  
She looked him up and down. "Not a date with the old men," she observed.  
  
He shook his head. "I need to see Julia."  
  
"She probably needs to see you," she replied, but there was caution in her tone.  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"She probably needs to see someone she'll listen to, who can tell her that Vicious' opinion of himself is a little different from the Van's. He seems to think he's invincible now that they're running that team together. And I think she believes it, too."  
  
"Don't know why you think she'd listen to me," he said, but he saw the opening he'd needed to broach the subject on his mind with her. "I just want to thank her properly. Buy her dinner or something, you know."  
  
"Behave," she intoned, giving him that piercing look he'd come to expect and dread. "You can fool me, but don't fool yourself."  
  
He tried to smile in response, but it fell short. "That's what I'm best at."  
  
After the four-hour flight between cities, the thought of the Swordfish made his ribs ache, so he set out on foot again, keeping his head low and his hands in his pockets. He'd made it two blocks when he realized he didn't have the Jericho, and stopped short in the middle of the sidewalk while his stomach twisted. Gone so long I've forgotten how to survive, he thought, and shifted from foot to foot. The conversation came back to him in a flood –  
  
"Go on. But bring me my gun."  
  
The look on her face, afraid to disobey, afraid he'd gone around the bend, afraid he'd use it on himself.  
  
But she'd brought it already. "In the bag. With your comm. and your wallet."  
  
What had he said next?  
  
"Remember me. Julia, go."  
  
And she went.  
  
He shook himself and dug out a cigarette. She'd done what he told her to do. Or she'd done what Vicious told her to do. Nothing to blame her for, either way, and she'd been right in the end about Vicious and Mao. He took a half-dozen steps back toward Annie's, but the twinge in his shoulder dredged up an earlier scene, walking into her apartment with his gun drawn and an order to kill her, and he realized he'd left without it on purpose, even if he hadn't known.  
  
The light through the peephole dimmed before he heard the locks rattle, and she swept the door open. For an interminable half-second, she stared at him, and then her arms were around his neck, her head on his chest. He'd barely summoned the muscle control to return the embrace before she pulled back, flushed and a little sheepish, and smiled an apology. She wore the same floral blouse he'd mended, and a little gray skirt with a flare above the knees. She looked impossibly perfect, and she'd just been sitting around her apartment.  
  
He let his hands drop to his sides. "Yo."  
  
"When you didn't call, I was afraid you wouldn't come to see me," she said, moving aside so he could come in and bolting the door behind him. "You look... really good."  
  
"I took a chance you'd be home. I wanted to surprise you." He didn't trust himself to respond to the compliment.  
  
Her smile grew wider. "You did. I'm so glad you're back. We've missed you."  
  
The flash of jubilation at being missed faded when he registered the 'we'. "I hear Vicious got you a new hot-rod position," he said, smiling tightly. "Congratulations."  
  
She cocked her head at him. "Thanks. It's a great opportunity. We haven't had much to do, though. I'm glad you're back in time for the excitement."  
  
"You think I came back so I wouldn't miss out on a Syndicate hit?"  
  
"That's why Mao called you back, isn't it?" She chucked him on the elbow and went to the kitchen, calling through the archway, "Get right back on the velocycle? Want a beer?"  
  
"No, thanks," he called back, and took a deep breath. Get it out before she comes back and looks you in the eye again, he told himself. "I'm only here because of you."  
  
"I'm flattered, but you're pretty tough, Spike. I just gave you somewhere to sleep it off." She reappeared, beer in hand, smiling at him.  
  
"No, I mean I only came back because you're here."  
  
She froze.  
  
"Mao tells me Vicious is in a bit of trouble with the Van," he plowed on.  
  
"Some," she replied, watching him through narrowed eyes while she sat down on the couch. "Hopefully after this weekend we can put it behind us."  
  
He flinched again at the plural pronoun. "What's going on with him? Nobody seems to want to tell me what's wrong," he lied. He wanted to hear it from her.  
  
"He's off-balance ever since you got shot. Ever since they moved you to Alva City. Figuring out Britt helped, but I think he'll be better with you home." She shrugged.  
  
It wasn't what he wanted to hear. "Why does everybody think I make him better? That I'll make the whole situation here better?"  
  
"Because you do, and you will." Her tone was light, but firm. "You seem a little... I don't know. Off, tonight." She looked at him closely. "What's wrong?"  
  
He didn't mean to start in. He meant to sit and talk and be with her, to try and find his way through being alive when he expected to be dead. The words had run through his head too often while he missed her, though. "Why did you stay with him, Julia?"  
  
She blinked. "What?"  
  
"After your trip to Ganymede. Why did you stay with him?" He was in it now; no use trying to cover.  
  
Long seconds went by while she stared at him, but finally she answered. "Because he apologized."  
  
He knit his brow in confusion. "An apology was sufficient?"  
  
"The apology was sincere," she said, cold creeping into her tone.  
  
He cleared his throat, trying to backpedal from the confrontation. "Is it better now that you're working with him?"  
  
"I've always worked with him." She seemed to relax a little. "But it is nice to have his confidence. He trusts me. He listens to what I have to say."  
  
"He'd be a fool not to."  
  
"It's different. He says I'm his second in name but not in stature, and he acts that way." While she spoke, her back straightened. Her pride was obvious, and it made him furious.  
  
"Don't take this the wrong way, but he isn't in a position to make that decision."  
  
"Not to promote me, no. Not further than he has already. But it's not how the Van sees me that matters." She smiled to herself.  
  
He couldn't find his voice at first. Annie was right – Vicious had her hook, line and sinker. He bit his lip, looking for a way to make her come to the conclusion herself. "You know he only shares his power to a point, don't you? His ambition is stronger than anything else in his heart."  
  
"We've been together for two years, Spike," she said, icy again. The reminder stung like she'd peeled the healed skin from the bullet hole in his chest. "Of course I know he's ambitious. And he'll run the Red Dragon someday because he accomplishes what he sets out to do. He shares his power with me of his own free will, because he needs me. He needs you too. I don't see you complaining."  
  
He tried to hold back the anger, but the flush crawled over his skin. "I may not be complaining, but my eyes are open. He needs whatever helps him accomplish his own ends. He doesn't hesitate to cut his ties when he's gotten there. What do you think he's doing right now?"  
  
"Carrying out an assignment to eliminate a traitor," she replied with a shrug.  
  
"Killing a man he used to work for when he was a boy!" Spike burst out. She jumped at his raised voice and he wanted to apologize, but the cruel words poured out instead. "Did you ever see that really old movie called 'Anne of the Thousand Days'? It was about a crazy king on Earth, who married women and then had them executed when they couldn't bear him a male heir. Anne was his eighth wife. She was afraid of him at first, but then she grew to love his power. She thought she was different from the others – chosen. And in the end, when she failed him, he beheaded her anyway. Is that what you want, Julia? Knowing he'll do it to anyone in his way? Knowing he would have done it once before? Leave him before he has the authority and the balls to carry through. Next time he won't send me."  
  
She recoiled like he'd slapped her and turned away. "Are you trying to say something else, Spike, or did you just come back to show me how much you hate me?"  
  
He blinked, the fury fading into exhaustion. "God, Julia, I don't hate you. I'm sorry. I've had a lot of time to think these past few weeks. And all I've thought about was you."  
  
Her eyes shone when she looked at him again. She sighed and said, "I can't run away. I'd be killed, with or without Vicious' intervention. And I don't know how I could stay here and face him every day if I tried to separate myself from him."  
  
"I never saw you as a coward, Julia. What did you see in him before he frightened you into submission?"  
  
She stood, drawing herself up to full height. The sight was at once beautiful and terrifying. When she spoke, her mouth moved like a tight spring held it shut. "Fuck you, Spike. I survived without a childhood. I made my own way. After all of that, I deserve him. I deserve the man who will be king."  
  
He braced himself. "Even if you're afraid of him?"  
  
"He gives me security more than equal to the fear," she hissed.  
  
He scoffed, curling his lip. "It's like I'm finally seeing you with my right eye."  
  
"Then what does your right eye see?" she asked, almost patronizing.  
  
"Reality. The reality that if you settle for what you think you deserve, you become the person who deserves it."  
  
He turned on his heel, deaf to anything but his own heartbeat and the rush of blood in his ears, and let himself out.  
  
She stood dumbstruck while the door slammed behind him, the picture frames rattling on the wall. A wave of nausea made her wince, and before she could register anything else, the room swam behind tears. The last of the daylight faded as the sun set on the horizon, bathing the room in red and then leaving only the faint glow of the table lamp. She balled her fists at her sides and forced herself to move.  
  
She checked the hall, but he was utterly gone by the time she got up the nerve to turn the knob. She closed the door, leaning against it, her palm flat on the smooth new wood. From her vantage point, she spotted the comm. on the kitchen table and went to get it, numb fingers finding his code. She tried to control her shaking hand and pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the window while it rang.  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, she registered movement on the street below and realized she could see him, half a block away, searching his pockets for his comm. He found it, holding it up to look at it, and she took a deep, rattling breath, but he just stood there.  
  
"Answer, damn it," she hissed under her breath. The tone buzzed again.  
  
She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. One more ring till messaging. She was about to hang up when the screen flickered on, his face pale and hard. He did not speak.  
  
"What do you think I deserve?" she whispered.  
  
"What?" His voice was taut, half an octave higher than usual.  
  
"Please don't walk away from me, Spike," she managed, a little louder, trying to keep her own voice from breaking. "I want to know what you think I deserve."  
  
His shoulders slumped; he tapped the toe of his right boot against his left heel in a nervous gesture she realized she knew but had never noticed. His eyes seemed to bore through the LCD display, the streetlight reflected in two bright spots. One brighter than the other. He still said nothing.  
  
"I want you to show me," she said, and held her breath.  
  
He raised an eyebrow. The muscles of his jaw clenched and released. On the street, she could see the motion of his arm before his hand came into view in close-up, running fingers roughly through his hair.  
  
"Come back," she whispered. "Even if it's just until morning."  
  
The hand dropped from his head. The screen went black. She watched him pocket the comm. and move a few more feet down the sidewalk. Then he stopped and turned, slowly. He raised his head and she knew he'd see her, silhouetted against the dim lamplight. Finally, he took a tentative step toward her building, and another; when he was halfway across the street, she went to sit on the couch and wait. 


	29. No Doubt

A/N: Ch. XXVIII (Anne of the Thousand Days) is also new today. Make sure you've read it.  
  
For sticking with me this far, you've earned this chapter.  
  
Oh – and,  
  
Heed.  
  
The.  
  
Rating.  
  
I mean it.  
  
***  
  
XXIX. No Doubt  
  
Spike jammed the comm. back in his pocket. His head pounded, anger and adrenaline coursing through his heart and out into his limbs. His whole body felt like it was too close to a fire.  
  
She couldn't have meant it. She couldn't have meant what it sounded like.  
  
He started walking toward Annie's again, but her words had mass, gravity. She'd asked him to come back.  
  
She'd asked him to come back for the night.  
  
There was nothing he could refuse her.  
  
***  
  
The soft knock pulled her pounding heart up into her throat, and she had to swallow it before she could call out, "It's open."  
  
The latch clicked, the door creaked, and she heard the hesitation before he crossed the threshold, wondered if he could sense the parallel to that halting, strange conversation – another lifetime ago, when he'd saved her from drowning in her own mistake. She felt frozen to the couch, as though helpless to break from the pattern set that night, listening to his footsteps until he finally came into view.  
  
When he saw her face, his hardened expression crumbled into tenderness, and then he was there, on his knees on the hardwood in front of her, familiar and dangerous, taking her hands in his own.  
  
"I didn't mean any of it," he said, almost pleading.  
  
She squeezed his fingers and swallowed her heart again. "I know."  
  
"I'm afraid to say what I should have said."  
  
"You have nothing to fear from me, Spike," she whispered.  
  
He took a deep breath, leaning forward as though he could push the words out with the movement. "From the very beginning, Julia. From the first second. The second before I saw you, the way I remember it. I loved you." All in one long exhale.  
  
"I know." Somehow, knowing did nothing to soften the impact of hearing it said, in his voice, from his lips.  
  
He looked crestfallen at her response, watching her eyes, unconsciously stroking the back of her hand with a calloused thumb. "I thought it would get easier, but I'm all out of fight. I'm making it worse for myself." He opened his mouth to go on, and then shut it again, looking away.  
  
Seconds ticked by, and she railed at herself for her cowardice, her desperate desire to answer him honestly, and the crushing weight of terror at what would come afterward, when excuses wouldn't hold back the momentum of the words being said.  
  
He shifted as though to stand. She gripped his fingers tightly, holding him in place. "I have no other promises for you," she said, "but we're here, together. Alone." His face wavered like the surface of deep water, from resignation to hope and back again to sadness.  
  
"I don't know what I'm doing." He almost looked sick.  
  
"Please," she whispered, more to herself than to him, "there will be time enough for doubt afterward."  
  
"No, I mean I don't know how to do this. What I think you're asking..."  
  
She raised her eyebrows. "I have a feeling you do."  
  
He blushed and let out a nervous laugh. "I just – you know me. I'm a point and shoot kind of guy. I don't know how to..." he trailed off again.  
  
How to please you. How to show you my soul. She could hear it in the silence as though he'd said it out loud, and dove in to rescue him. "Have you fantasized about this?"  
  
An audible click of his Adam's apple as he swallowed seemed affirmative.  
  
"Point and shoot fantasies?"  
  
He shook his head, wide-eyed.  
  
"Do what you fantasize about before the shooting starts, then," she murmured. "The act is the end. When the doubt starts. Don't hurry to get there."  
  
He looked up at her with those strange, barely mismatched eyes, and in the left she saw hope, shame and desire fighting for control. He sat back on his heels, long arms outstretched so his hands rested on her hips, and his attention moved down her body from her face, over her clothing, almost critically. But when his fingers lifted the edge of her shirt, he met her gaze again, unwavering as he freed each button from its buttonhole. Ever the master of his arts, he had memorized each step required to disrobe her in that brief examination, and if he wanted to see what he was uncovering, he wanted to gauge her reaction even more.  
  
She didn't dare look away as the thin fabric of her blouse slid down over her shoulders; when he lifted the camisole over her head it was like the shutter of a camera, a brief intrusion that branded the expression on his face in her memory while she waited to see it again. He traced a line from below her ear, down her throat with those impossibly long fingers, and splayed them lightly over her collarbone. She heard his breath catch in his throat, felt the briefest hesitation, before the flat of his palm slid over her breast and gently cupped it, learning the weight. He rose slightly on his knees, leaned in, and kissed his way from her forehead down her nose to her mouth. He sighed when she parted her lips for his tongue, wrapping his other arm around her back and drawing her closer. It went on until they both needed air, and broke with rushed inhales.  
  
Julia cradled his face in her hands as she pulled back. She knew this was her move, that her compliance had to be clear or she'd be left with only the aching, unfulfilled potential of what this might have been. Taking a cue from him, she watched his face as she pushed off the bomber jacket and lifted the T-shirt beneath it up and over his head. He seemed reluctant to let go of her, but raised his arms to free them, and knelt there looking at her, all muscle and limb at angles, as vulnerable as the day she had undressed him while he lay unconscious in her bathtub. His scars gleamed in the light filtering through the window and she touched them with her fingertips, noting how smooth his skin was, how those visible marks would no doubt fade to near nothingness with time. She had taken less care with the stitches on the worst of his wounds, but even they seemed to defy their seriousness, looking as though months rather than weeks had passed.  
  
"You save me," he breathed.  
  
She knew if she looked into those eyes again she might lose her nerve, so she pulled him close, hooked her chin over his shoulder, and ran her hands down the flat plane of his back. The response was immediate - a low growl in his throat as he rose higher to meet her. His body was a furnace, and she realized he held back, felt the unmistakable straining of his arousal when he collided with her knees. Doubt be damned, she thought, and drove her hands between their bodies to fumble with the buttons on his jeans.  
  
He nuzzled her neck and followed suit, gripping the waistband of her skirt and tugging at it without success. She waited until his jeans were free and she had pushed them, along with his boxers, down to the floor before she reached back to unclasp the hook at the small of her back. The movement thrust her breasts against him, and he growled again as he buried his face between them, open-mouthed. Hot breath left trails of gooseflesh in its wake as he dared to take a nipple between his lips, and then his teeth, carefully, testing. She let out a ragged gasp and he froze, but she spread her hand across the back of his head, fingers in that thick tangle of black-green, urging him on.  
  
He had taken her advice with utmost seriousness. Though she knew full well what kind of pent-up longing he had to be inside her - knew it because she felt it in equal measure - his hands and mouth explored every inch of her torso, her neck, her face. He traced the lines of her ribs with his tongue while she shivered and writhed beneath the onslaught.  
  
He slid the unfastened skirt down below her waist and kneaded the flesh of her hips, thumbs grazing close to her center but never touching. He ran his palms down the sides of her thighs as she lifted them off the couch, made her giggle when he reached the backs of her knees, and finally bowed before her to pull the skirt free, kissing the arch of each foot in turn.  
  
When he straightened and looked into her eyes again, all hesitation had fled. The faint smile on his lips seemed innocent, but the set of his jaw gave it an edge. He drew himself up to his full height and stepped out of his clothing with no trace of self-consciousness.  
  
"Help me," he whispered. "Tell me I'm not dreaming."  
  
"I'm here," she whispered back.  
  
She turned to lead him to her bed - the bed where Vicious slept with her, she knew in the part of her heart that broke when Spike kissed her the first time - and he did not move to follow. Dreading a confrontation, she turned slowly back to him, but the smile was still there.  
  
"Go," he told her in that low, primal voice. "I want to look at you." And he stood, taking shallow breaths, while she crossed the distance to the bedroom lit by the ambient glow of moons and streetlamps. She did not hear him move, but as she placed a knee on the side of the mattress, he was behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, face buried in her hair.  
  
"There is nothing more perfect in the universe," he mumbled into it. With steady hands, he turned her and laid her on her back, propped above her but too far away with his long reach. She gripped the back of his neck and pulled him down and off balance so that he fell against her, the puzzle of their bodies fitting together like time reversing, making them whole again.  
  
He looked surprised by how easily he found his place inside. Years and distrust slid from his features, replaced by calm, and he closed his eyes as he let his face drop to her shoulder.  
  
He moved like water. She realized she'd grown used to the way Vicious tried to conquer her body. Instead, Spike flowed, skin-to-skin with her, creating friction where his chest slid against her nipples, arching his back so the coarse hairs on his stomach tickled her belly. His handspan was so wide that he could stretch them across her back to meet in the center, and he cradled her shoulders, lifting her so her head fell back and he could kiss her throat.  
  
He raised his head to look at her, searching her face. She tried to hold his gaze, but she was fading out, the rhythm of movement lulling her while her brain shut down all other thought to make room for the traffic in her nerves. She saw his eyes widen, felt him hesitate, and she whispered, "Let go..."  
  
He relaxed a little, leaning in for a kiss, and when she responded hungrily – sucking on his tongue, refusing to let him pull back – he moaned low and deep, shuddering, driving against her so that she felt every tremble and pulse.  
  
She wrapped her arms around him, fingers tracing circles across his back while he buried his face in the hollow where her shoulder met her neck. Slowly, his breath evened out, though she still felt his heart pounding against her breast.  
  
Seconds faded away; traffic hummed outside. Julia felt a rush of pride and sadness when his body began to shake, and she could feel the hot trail of his tears against her skin. He sobbed without sound, still inside her, the movement pushing her relentlessly toward her own release. Later, it would seem a portent: he gave himself to her completely, laid bare; she understood in a moment of blinding clarity that she would die for him, and her whole body responded, pleasure flashing behind her eyelids like the slipstream, carrying her away from reality and into truth.  
  
***  
  
Unwelcome sunlight crept through Spike's slitted eyelids when he woke again, unsure how many times he had done so during the night; he felt wrung out and winded, his eyes filled with sand, after a week of stolen nights together crammed into the space of the past eight hours. It was the exhaustion of effort well spent, though, and apparently not terminal – his body responded obediently when Julia stirred and snaked a leg between his own.  
  
"Hey," he whispered, and squinted against the light to look at her. She opened her eyes, and though she did not move, he caught the unmistakable flash of confusion when she saw his face.  
  
After a split second's hesitation, she replied. "Hey."  
  
"You look surprised to see me." He tried to smile.  
  
She smiled back and wrapped her arms around him. "I thought I was dreaming. Then I noticed this." She slid her leg higher.  
  
Somehow, daylight made all the difference. Her perfection was warm – no longer the ethereal goddess in moonlight, he could see where the flush of arousal spread ruddy across her skin, creeping up from her chest to her throat. He tasted himself in a quick, biting kiss, and then the aftertaste of her. Julia. Beneath him and around him, in his pores and his lungs. And in the daylight, real. Real enough that the betrayal was real, too. He pushed the epiphany back and shut his eyes tightly against it, wrenching a few final moments of joy from her wordless sounds of encouragement and the way her breath shivered out when she came.  
  
"You were right," he mumbled, pausing to kiss her collarbone before he pushed himself up on his elbows. Her heart sank at the confusion on his face.  
  
"Spike... I don't regret this." She turned to face him as he rolled beside her.  
  
He tucked her hair behind her ear and trailed his thumb down her jawline. "Neither do I. But I regret what I've drawn you into."  
  
"You haven't drawn me into anything. I'm not that easily manipulated," she replied, keeping her tone gentle.  
  
"That's not what I meant. I can't believe my luck, but I believe you wanted to be with me."  
  
"Want to. Not past tense. Not yet."  
  
"I don't feel guilty on my account, or on Vicious'. He owed me." He clenched his teeth, looking past her to where a bar of pale morning sun divided the bedroom wall.  
  
"What do you mean, he owed you? You're just collecting a debt?" Anger nearly overshadowed the feeling she had been kicked in the stomach, but he shook his head and pulled her to him, kissing her hair.  
  
"Not at all. I don't know how to explain, but I'll try."  
  
The smell of his skin – faint smoke, soap, the clean sweat of physical exertion, her own scent – touched some part of her memory from long past. She felt young, protected, the sting of his comment fading with the vibration of his voice in her ear.  
  
"Vicious pursued you because I was indebted to him," he went on, speaking in short bursts as he tried to choose his words. "I don't mean out of sport. He wanted you more than he had ever wanted anything. He was not alone in that. I didn't try to make you choose, because I owed him. This runs between us so deep, and for so long. It is the basis of our partnership and our friendship. One after another, a long line of debts, and I don't leave my debts unpaid. When he asked me to keep you here or kill you, he broke the promise he made to me, that he would protect you above his own life, above anything else."  
  
She shivered. "Please don't talk about that. It's over. No harm came of it."  
  
"I won't talk about it, if you'll stop defending him."  
  
She sighed. "I'm usually the one calling the shots, not the one being volleyed."  
  
Spike pressed his face to her neck, lips moving against her skin. "I don't want you to think he loved you only because I wanted you as well."  
  
"He doesn't love me," she replied as she moved back to look at him. "He never will."  
  
He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Why stay with him, then?"  
  
"Don't start this again, Spike. I haven't had a choice in the matter for far too long."  
  
The fantasy slid through his brain like it was already a memory: the Jericho coming up in a practiced arc of the arm, Vicious off-guard, the recoil and the moment of deafness that followed the shot and the seconds stretching out like years while his body crumpled to the floor. And in its wake, the vision alone left guilt as palpable as if it were done.  
  
"Why am I here, then?" He stretched an arm across her waist and drew her closer.  
  
"Now I know what it feels like to be loved," she said, her voice steady. "And I've incurred a debt I don't know how to repay." 


	30. Night and Day

XXX. Night and Day  
  
The trading district on Ganymede kept an accommodating schedule, owing to the frequent stops of long-haul freighters and caravans traversing the beltway of gates. In the fading light of late evening, Vicious wandered the bazaar, hands in his pockets and his long coat drawn back, casually baring the scabbard and sword, keeping his head low and scouring the wares from beneath a wash of hair. Something here had to be good enough to take home to Julia.  
  
He smiled to himself, watching the milling crowd part like a drift of Spike's cigarette smoke, his body the finger that toyed with the flow. People on the street gave him wide berth instinctively, even when the katana hung flush against his thigh, invisible. An opalsmith's shop caught his eye; the choke-collar of platinum link and blocky, imperfect trapezoids of stone drew him in, but when he reached the booth, his loyalties shifted.  
  
Twin Derringers, iridescent blue steel wrapped in boltless handles of green opal, lay in a pile of crushed black velvet. Despite their size, they looked formidable and cold to the touch. As he reached to pick one up, the smith put a hand on his wrist, and then jerked back when he looked up into the face of his potential customer. He swallowed and let his hand drop beneath the counter, but managed to say his piece. "Unless you are planning to buy, please do not touch. The oils of your hands, combined with the oils of others, will dull the stone. They should be held only by their owner."  
  
Julia was always after him to carry a gun. The Sig Sauer was a beautiful piece of machinery, but heavy, and with a wicked recoil that left the tendons of his wrists aching dully. He hated having to fire his way into a confrontation, and then compensate for the numbness of his palms and the hot-cold twinge in the tendons while he finished the fight as he was meant to do, up close, with a blade. These looked light, antique only in appearance.  
  
Vicious grinned. "You're a good salesman," he replied. "I'll take them. I want to touch them."  
  
"Sir," the smith said in a stage-whisper, "These are not inexpensive trinkets."  
  
"Do you mean they are real weapons, or are you implying I cannot afford them?" Vicious arched an eyebrow, the grin gone.  
  
"Well, perhaps, a bit of both, sir, no disrespect intended." The smith shifted on his feet. "They are quite valuable. Modified. Kerstner assembly under the handle. The small caliber backup sidearm carried by the IS –"  
  
"I know what a Kerstner is," Vicious interrupted in a low, silky voice. "Package them up. Gift wrapped." He slid a hand into his coat pocket and brought out his bankcard.  
  
"Yes, of course, sir." Using the cloth beneath them, he gathered the pistols and boxed them, leaving the card sitting on the counter, his eyes flicking to it every few seconds. When he'd finished wrapping the package, he finally took the card, one hand still resting on top of the box. "Six hundred fifty, sir."  
  
Vicious nodded.  
  
"Thousand, sir."  
  
Vicious sighed and rolled his eyes. "If you want it, you had best not try to talk me out of it," he muttered. He caught the smothered smile of the merchant and knew he'd been charged a premium for his eagerness, but the guns were perfect and the money was easy to come by. He collected his card and the package and set off back toward his ship.  
  
One for each. The engagement rings of ravenous beasts at the top of the food chain. He smiled to himself.

* * *

Julia tucked her head under Spike's chin, returning the embrace. He said nothing in response to her admission, but she could feel his muscles tense, almost imperceptibly, and then relax again as they lay in silence, their breathing settling into a matched rhythm.  
  
"We should get up," she whispered, recognizing the beginnings of sleep in the way his neck relaxed.  
  
He drew in a deep breath and sat up abruptly. "When is he coming home?" The words came out low and rough, an attempt at casual that instead fell into sullen.  
  
"I don't know," she replied, carefully neutral.  
  
He sighed and turned to look at her; like the night before, his expression softened as soon as he saw her face, and he nodded. "I'm sorry," he said, and gave her a sad smile. "I'm just not ready to wake up from this."  
  
She smiled back, hoping he couldn't see the way her throat tightened until she thought she might not breathe again at his words, and slid out of bed to take a shower before she lost her resolve.  
  
She returned, wrapped in her bathrobe, hair brushed and wet, to find him perched at the open window in his jeans, out of sight from below, arms crossed over his stomach and his cigarette held out so the smoke drifted on the wind. He'd gathered the blankets and sheets from the bed in her laundry basket, and the sight of them – balled up much more ferociously than necessary – broke her heart.  
  
She wanted to tell him there would be a next time, but she didn't want to lie. Instead, she crossed to where he sat and put her hands on his shoulders, laying her cheek flat against the warm expanse of his back. He took a long drag of smoke, leaning into her, and then let it go in an impossibly drawn-out, perfect narrow trail. "I probably need a shower myself," he said softly, and was about to flick the cigarette out the window when she took it from his hand.  
  
"If ever an occasion warranted me having one of these again, this is it," she explained, with a hint of humor. She brought it to her lips and tasted him on the filter, closing her eyes.  
  
He chuckled low in his chest and stood, trailing his fingers down her terrycloth thigh.  
  
She listened to the sound of the shower running, the uneven splashes of movement, the moments when he would fall still and she could picture him, water drumming against those sinewy shoulder muscles, his head bowed. Mechanically, she spread clean sheets with her arms outstretched like supplication, smoothing the fold marks and tucking the corners tight. She had just finished securing the bedspread around the pillows when the water turned off with a thunk, followed by a wave of silence. She raised the window another inch and went to the kitchen, feet like lead.  
  
He came back out in a towel, oddly young with his wet hair smoothed down around his skull. Smiling as he passed her, he crossed to the couch and retrieved his boxers. "Wouldn't want to leave these here."  
  
She did not smile in return.  
  
"Hey," he said, "breakfast?"  
  
It was like an inward stumble – falling back in her memories, knowing that look, hopeful and cajoling and more than anything else earnest. He'd looked just like that every time he'd said the word before. Always the same implied question.  
  
"Absolutely," she replied.

* * *

"It wasn't so much that I wanted to get in trouble," Julia was saying, her eyes sparkling, "as that I just couldn't resist."  
  
She'd let slip to Spike that she'd once been kicked out of the science museum on Venus, and he insisted on hearing the whole story. He picked at his food, laughing too often to make any headway and not wanting to miss the opportunity to make a smart remark.  
  
"I mean, there's a big placard explaining how the counterweight at the end of the pole makes it possible to ride the cycle across the tightrope," she went on. "And I was five pounds over the weight limit, but I didn't look it. So I got in line. I got out in the middle of the tightrope and started goofing around, swinging further and further to the sides. They were right, I couldn't get it to go all the way over. But!" she paused for a swallow of coffee, "My street physics education was incomplete on the subject of gravity."  
  
He raised his eyebrows, smirking, seeing where it was going.  
  
"I got over far enough that I fell off the cycle. And I tried to hang on too long. The counterweight nailed me in the head as I was falling. At which point I was no longer curious why they'd wrapped it in styro padding."  
  
He struggled for a few seconds to keep his reaction to an amused smile, but his cheeks twitched and he finally burst out laughing, feeling the sting of a half-swallow of coffee in his sinuses. She laughed with him, pink creeping up her cheeks. "Bet you never forgot that physics lesson," he finally managed. "Probably explains a few things, too. That Julia. You'll have to excuse her. She was hit in the head by a counterweight when she was a little girl."  
  
She gasped mock indignation and feinted at him with her fork across the booth. He reached for his knife, but she jabbed at his hand and he jerked it back, grinning at her from under his eyebrows. They squared off, he wiggling the fingers of his left hand while she sat coiled and ready to pounce, but at the same moment he managed a particularly elaborate roll of those digits, he darted his right hand out and came up with a spoon, triumphant. "Don't you remember the cigarette trick I taught you?" he needled, clashing spoon with her fork. "Distract with the off hand. Execute with the on hand."  
  
She giggled and speared a piece of melon with her silverware-cum-foil. "I do remember."  
  
They sat silent for a few moments; Spike finished the last of his coffee and looked around for a waitress, but there was none in sight. He set the cup down, uncurling his long fingers from it, and dug into his jacket pocket for a handful of Woolongs.  
  
"I'll walk you home," he said, slow and deliberate. "Annie is going to wonder where I've been."  
  
She blanched a little. "Annie wouldn't say anything," she thought out loud.  
  
"No, she wouldn't, to anyone else," he replied, "but I'll never hear the end of it myself." He avoided Julia's eyes and slid out of the bench seat to stretch beside it.  
  
She followed, putting a hand on his arm. He turned to look down at her, and she entwined her arm with his. "Still no regrets," she murmured. He nodded, but had nothing to say.  
  
It took less than a block for him to smile again; in this moment, he was walking down the street with Julia on his arm, Julia recently in bed with him, Julia with a cluster of tiny moles shaped like a constellation just below her left nipple, Julia telling him another Venusian story because he laughed at her stories and he knew she loved to get a laugh. Came of spending too much time with a man who laughed too little. Since there was nothing he could refuse her, he was laughing out loud again by the time they rounded the corner to the back stairwell of her building, and perhaps that was why he missed, for half a second, the way her hand disappeared from the crook of his elbow and the fact that she fell an inch or so behind him. He turned to see what held her up and then followed her gaze, up the stairs to the covered porch, where Vicious stood with his hands in his coat pockets and a silver-wrapped present under one arm. 


	31. Fair Trade

XXXI. Fair Trade  
  
Spike waited for the tsunami of guilt, the nausea, the nervousness, but none came. Instead, he found himself calculating the situation, the sheets in the washer and run through the cycle during the time they were away, all his clothing and possessions on his body, Julia fresh-scrubbed and smiling. She impressed him even more than his own cold arithmetic: bounding up the stairs and throwing her arms around Vicious, letting him sweep her in a kiss that was more consuming than tender. Then the adrenaline crept in, but it was fury and confusion and hurt, not guilt. He hadn't thought it would be any other way, but even so he understood he'd hoped for a confrontation, an unequivocal clean break. It had been the first and the last time, he thought, and it took every ounce of mechanical conditioning to make himself climb the stairs and accept Vicious' embrace, the murmured "You look well, and I am glad to see it." He nodded and stepped back, and there it was: Vicious suspected. Didn't suspect what had really happened, but knew that something had changed and the balance of their three-variable equation was off. He would search for the remainder. Someday, it would be found.  
  
And Spike knew it would not be sought out now. Vicious would let the pieces rattle around in his head until they fit together. Now, his mind was on business. "Spike," he was saying as he unlocked the door to the apartment, "I want to meet you at the tower in an hour or so. We should review the schedule and run a training session. Lin will want to see you."  
  
Spike nodded dumbly, realizing he'd been dismissed. When he hesitated, Vicious looked between him and Julia. "Did you need something inside?" he asked, smooth and unconcerned.  
  
"No," Spike said, shaking his head, "I just came by to have breakfast with Julia. Thank her for taking care of me." He turned to go.  
  
Vicious chuckled behind him. "I think I will do the same. See you soon."  
  
Spike trudged back down the stairs with a belly full of bullets, fumbling for a cigarette.

* * *

The Van's summons was unexpected, and Mao bustled around his office, putting his tie back on and locking up his papers. He navigated the hallway gamut at a brisk pace and nodded to the Vanguard who opened the door for him. The chamber was completely empty save for the Van.  
  
"Yenrai-san, thank you for coming so quickly." Sou Long gestured to the seat, and Mao took it with a bow.  
  
"I am always at your command, your Honors," Mao replied. "Preparations for the summit are going well. How may I assist you?"  
  
"This matter is of the strictest confidence, Yenrai-san," Sou Long went on. "One of our ISSP contacts has informed me they are also aware of the summit's schedule, although not its location. We were warned in no uncertain terms that any activity on our part there would not go unnoticed or unpunished."  
  
Mao crossed his legs. "The opportunity is too good to pass up. We must weigh the consequences of action against the consequences of inaction. My initial opinion is that the consequences of inaction would be far worse."  
  
"We have done more than consider potential," Wang Long replied. "We have negotiated a punishment in advance. The ISSP approves of declawing the Tiger."  
  
"Of course they do," Mao said warily. "It will leave them with a housecat and a dragon to manage. Far simpler than two wild beasts."  
  
"We would not accept retribution that did not also benefit the Dragon. We have called you here to inform you of our intentions. This is a test of your loyalty, Yenrai-san. You are trusted beyond suspicion, but we will stretch that loyalty in the coming days. You have the opportunity to decline participation. Of course, the consequence of refusal will be final, but we respect your right to refuse all the same." Wang Long sat back again, and before Mao could reply, Sou Long continued.  
  
"The behavior of Vicious and this most unfortunate situation with the Ganymede freight pilot have brought us to a precipice," he said. "His heart is too plainly at odds with us, even if it beats solely to serve the Dragon as he wishes it would be. This has not gone unnoticed by the ISSP, or by other members of the Dragon, both executive and mercenary. He is a liability with too little respect for authority. You have kept him tethered, and defended him admirably, so far. But we believe you will lose your hold over him as well, if not soon, certainly before he has learned what he needs to know to run the Syndicate."  
  
Though he showed no outward response, Mao's head spun. He could see the pieces of the setup coming together: Vicious dispatched to Ganymede to murder a suspect and informant vital to an ISSP investigation. The summit, days away, and Vicious the most visible – and recognizable – participant in their attack. He cleared his throat and said evenly, "The execution of Vicious would send a wave through the Red Dragon that would dampen our victory over the Tiger. It would also have the potential to destroy the loyalty of Spike Spiegel, who I presume you do not hold in the same suspicious light, despite his recent absence."  
  
Sou Long shook his head. "Of course, Yenrai-san, as in all things, you speak what we have thought already. We do not wish to eliminate Vicious. It is still our hope that one day, he will be able to rise to the position for which he has been groomed. It is our hope that he will do so with Spike Spiegel by his side. They are necessary to one another, but Spiegel needs an opportunity to develop the nature of his father. The nature that Vicious has always provided by his presence."  
  
Mao sighed. "Permitting Vicious to be incarcerated, without using the normal avenues to have him released immediately, will have the same effect as executing him."  
  
"This guessing game is pointless," Ping Long muttered. "Tell him what the ISSP suggested."  
  
Mao raised his eyebrows and waited.  
  
"Your point is well taken, Ping Long," Sou Long said. "The ISSP informed us that they would need to show power over the Dragon, if we were to attack the White Tiger in full force. They will announce citizen conscription at the beginning of next week. We will permit them to conscript Vicious, to send him to Titan to fight. They may choose to use his subterfuge skills for agent activity. If he serves his term, he will be allowed to return to Mars, and to the Red Dragon, with no further consequence."  
  
Mao blinked. "Vicious will not accept," he said.  
  
"He will," Sou Long said gravely, "if it guarantees his immunity both with the ISSP and with us when he comes home. And in the meantime, he will have the experience of military structure and discipline in a world where he has no compatriots or sponsors. He does not think he needs our protection. He would do well to learn how great that need really is."  
  
"What if he does not survive the war?" Mao asked.  
  
"It will be a great loss to the Red Dragon, the unfortunate consequence of politics," Ping Long replied. "One from which we will recover. A risk we are willing to take. One we have taken already, as we explained at the beginning of this meeting. You may not communicate this information to him; we will do so the day of the summit."  
  
Sou Long sat forward, looking down at Mao with sharp eyes and a grave expression. "Of course, we cannot permit you time to consider, other than the time you have had while we spoke. Your agreement, or your refusal, Yenrai-san?"  
  
He sat silent for a long minute, hands folded across his chest. He could not deny the graceful simplicity of the plan, nor its potential benefit to the Red Dragon, and to Vicious. He knew better than anyone – certainly better than the Van – how much Vicious needed to understand discipline and camaraderie. How much he needed to respect the way others depended on the order of their lives and the universe. He bit his lip before opening his mouth, but his voice was clear when he replied.  
  
"I agree, your Excellencies."

* * *

Spike caught an electric tram back downtown, watching the city slide by in blocks of residual Earth-culture and stages of wealth. The International District was a flare of color after the warehouse rows; in the distance the glittering high-rises shimmered and loomed while the car rattled on, shuddering to stops and lurching forward with more passengers. He disembarked three blocks from Annie's and lit another cigarette, smoking and walking slowly to time it so he could crush the butt out just as he pulled open the front door. Annie jerked her head up at the bell and her mouth tightened to a thin line when she saw him.  
  
"Yo," he tried, lightly. She did not reply.  
  
He pulled up a stool. She stood with her arms folded behind the counter, glaring a hole through him. He couldn't maintain eye contact. He felt sixteen, the day he brought his school discharge papers home, labeling him an instigator of conflict, a bully – though he'd never done anything other than defend himself against them – and unfit for the society of an estimable private school such as Karjahl Academy. He had no more to say in his own defense now than he'd had then.  
  
She made him wait, stewing, while she finished stocking the Marlboros and shuffled the full coffee carafe to the hot plate so she could start a second one brewing. When he squirmed, she finally dropped a mug and ashtray in front of him and filled his cup.  
  
He smiled hesitantly and took a drink while he fished out his cigarettes. He dug a long finger around in the wrapper, but was out. She huffed an exhale through her nose and dropped a fresh pack on the counter. When he went to reach for it, she put a hand on it again and spoke. "May as well be the last cigarette of a man in front of a firing squad, you insouciant idiot."  
  
He winced, squeezing his eyes closed, the corners of his mouth turning down as he bit back a reply. She let go and he opened the pack, handing her the cellophane to put in the trash.  
  
"He came looking for you two hours ago," she prodded.  
  
Spike sighed and lit his cigarette. "What did you tell him?" he asked through a cloud of smoke.  
  
"That you weren't here. That you had been home. He didn't go to your room. So he probably doesn't know you haven't slept in your new bed yet." She helped herself to the pack and lit up, settling into her chair.  
  
"I could have been anywhere, Annie. Why are you so wound up?" He tried to make a joke out of it.  
  
She wasn't having any. "I know exactly where you were, Spike. I know exactly what you were doing. I've known you might do it for two years now. I knew it would happen after Julia found you. I thought it might have then, but the reports of your condition made that seem unlikely."  
  
He shifted in his seat and shrugged. "Maybe nothing happened at all."  
  
"Damn it, Spike. Damn you. Damn your insufferable reckless desperate to die heart." There were tears in her eyes.  
  
"Hey," he said gently, putting a hand over hers – she jumped, but did not pull away. "It's not what you think. I saw him when Julia and I came back from breakfast. Everything is fine."  
  
She sniffed and shook her head. "And he saw you. Did he see your face? The look in your eye?"  
  
"I don't know what you mean."  
  
"You look like you just won the Platinum." She yanked her hand out from beneath his and refilled her cup, the coffee splashing onto the counter. She blinked hard while she swiped at it with a towel.  
  
"That's funny," he said, "because I feel like I just crashed my ship. Everything is different, but nothing has changed. Least of all, where I stand."  
  
She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and turned away. "I don't know why I bother," she muttered. "He wanted you to meet him at the Tower at noon. You've got ten minutes. Try not to come back dead."  
  
He sat, cigarette burning down to his knuckles, watching her jam coin rolls into the bank bag with her back to him, and finally gave up, going to change into his training clothes and meet his partner with the smell of Julia's soap and betrayal heavy in his sinuses. 


	32. Safecracking

XXXII. Safecracking  
  
Vicious swept long fingers through his white hair, pushing it back out of his eyes and letting the sweat keep it in place. With Spike, there was no need for the layer of shadow that made the twin scars look like nothing more than age lines; he'd never stared, not even at the first, and he'd never asked. It was how Vicious had known he could trust this reed-thin, mop-headed delinquent when Mao first introduced them in the stuffy, formal sitting room of his palatial home.  
  
Now Spike circled him, out at the edge of the reed mat in the training center, looking for all the world like he was just going from point A to point B. He wore a loose yellow T-shirt over his black drawstring pants. He seemed in good shape, still graceful, no limp.  
  
Vicious tried to match the nonchalant mood, standing in the center of the mat, shaking out his hands. He'd asked for this fight, partly to be sure Spike was really up to wet work, but mostly because he wanted it for himself. Something had gone soft in Spike; he'd seen it when they picked him up at Julia's. Too much time, too many days and hours to wonder if he would live or die. She'd seen that sentimental underbelly Spike worked so hard to protect and she'd drawn it out with her pity. Now he was on his second lap around the mat, too hesitant for Vicious' tastes, stinking of uncertainty.  
  
"I thought you said you had a sparring partner on your little vacation," Vicious growled.  
  
Spike closed the distance a bit, still circling like a horse on a halter line. "I did."  
  
"You act more like you had a dance partner."  
  
There it was. The eyes narrowing, the tendons in his long neck straining, the lightning sidestep that cut the gap between them down to a yard. His bare foot came around in a roundhouse kick and Vicious brought up his hand to grab the ankle. Spike let the momentum of the kick carry him, went airborne twisting sideways, watched Vicious falter a little under his weight, and brought his other foot around in a punishing punt to the side of Vicious' head. Vicious yanked up on the captive ankle before letting go, and Spike dropped from his own height to the mat heavily, rolling but disoriented for a split second. He arched his back and sprung up to his feet, bounced once on the balls of them, and then was still, panting.  
  
"Touchy," Vicious said with a sneer. "Should have waited until you were ready to hit me to hit me."  
  
"What's your problem, Vicious?" Spike cracked his neck and glared.  
  
"You are," he replied, watching those brown eyes go wide and then narrow, never leaving his own. "You look like Spike. But you don't fight like a ravenous beast. You fight like a fat house pet."  
  
The side of Spike's left hand connected with Vicious' kidney, and then he bounced back again, resuming his stroll. "Fuck you, metaljockey. Spit it out."  
  
"Are you going to fight me or talk?" Vicious lunged forward and threw a hard right, but Spike ducked under it – he knew it wouldn't land – and popped up again to deliver a left to Vicious' abdomen. He clenched the muscles in anticipation and took the blow silently, smirking when Spike shook out his hand. "Better." He blew out a breath and squared himself, and then they were into it, quick blows parried, Spike leaping a sweeping kick like it was a jumprope, Vicious feinting sideways and feeling the wind from Spike's fist rush past his face, strangled gasps and grunts. Instinct took over, the dojo forgotten. Five minutes stretched into ten, and then fifteen; Spike actually had to reorient himself and snap out of it when he found he'd twisted Vicious' left arm up behind his back and wrapped his own right arm around that white throat. Vicious was gagging.  
  
He let go and stepped back. There was never any boyishness between them when they fought; no clapping a hand on a shoulder or apologizing for a too- hard hit. Vicious shook himself, resisted the urge to rub at his neck, and turned to face him.  
  
"Good," he said, his voice raspy. "The firing range next. Doubt you've had much target practice in the past few weeks."  
  
Spike panted slightly, open-mouthed, blood trickling down into his right eye. "I never forget how to shoot or throw, Vicious. I've got a built-in scope."  
  
"You've never turned down a session before, either," Vicious replied, looking suspicious. "Is there somewhere else you need to be?"  
  
Spike sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back. "No. But you've been an asshole all afternoon, and you wouldn't waste the effort just to get me pissed off for a sparring match. Tell me what your issue is, or drop it."  
  
Vicious watched him, taking in the set of his jaw, the thrown-back shoulders he wore when he was ready to defend himself. In the corner of his mind, he knew there was a question he should be asking, something more off-kilter than Spike's apathy. But that was a good place to start. "I want to know why you act so put out over getting ready for this hit."  
  
"I'm not put out over getting ready. I'm put out over having to prove to you that I am. Used to be you'd believe me if I said so." Spike dragged a forearm across his eyes, blinking at the stinging sweat.  
  
Vicious felt a bearing fall into place. Not the combination, but the first digit. "A little sensitive, Tony-boy," he said, low. "We do this before every hit. Are you afraid I'm going to hurt you?"  
  
Spike's eyebrows drew together in a glower. "You seemed to be trying."  
  
"Used to be you would not mind," Vicious replied.  
  
"There's no reason for you to beat the shit out of me right before something this major, Vicious. Unless you missed having me around to whale on. Seems like you and Julia are getting on famously, so I guess you can't take it out on her. And the Van's got you in a choke chain. Don't spend your frustration on me."  
  
Julia's name made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. "My frustration? I am not frustrated, Spike. Perhaps you are, though. Must have been hollow, buying her breakfast after spending the night alone."  
  
Spike was silent for a few seconds, holding the stare, his face immobile. "You were supposed to protect her, Vicious," he finally said in a choked baritone. "I spent every night alone these past few weeks thinking about how you fucked that up."  
  
"Did you tell her that over a muffin and a cappuccino?" Vicious hissed.  
  
"No. She told me how she got kicked out of the Venusian science museum. I bet you've never heard that story. And she told me how you've made her your partner on your team. How much you've promised her that you have no means to deliver. I thought the word of a swordsman was as strong as his blade. But you use both just to get what you want for yourself."  
  
Vicious chuckled, watching the way the sound made Spike's skin draw tight over his jaw. "You wanted to know what my problem was. You fight like a woman, Spike. You are the one with the problem. But you cannot admit it, even to yourself."  
  
"She deserves better than what you give the rest of us," Spike said, deflated but still sparking with unspent energy. "We clean up your messes. You left me behind and she found me. You wanted her yours, or dead, and I made sure it was the former."  
  
"Be careful when you're with that woman." Vicious' tone was brittle. "She can make you believe, for the briefest of seconds, that you are a normal man. You are not. And she is not a normal woman."  
  
Spike's eyebrows twitched, just a little, and he was quiet a split second too long before he replied. "She is a normal woman, Vicious. She deserves someone who loves her. She needs it."  
  
Vicious stood stock-still, letting his breathing slow, letting Spike balance on the precipice of what had just crossed his lips. "From where I stand, Spiegel, it appears she has everything she needs. If you failed to convince her that you could offer something better, there is no point in trying to convince me." He balled his fists at his sides, resisting the urge to lay Spike out with a hard right while his mouth slacked open and the flicker of panic rippled over his face, and stalked out of the gym.

* * *

Vicious came home in his rank gym clothes to the empty apartment. Julia had gone out for groceries, he knew, and he stood just inside the doorway, looking around, breathing in. Even after three weeks, it still smelled like paint, but there was something more. Smoke. She hadn't smoked in two years.  
  
He dropped his bag and propped the katana against the doorjamb, pacing through the living room. Everything seemed in order. One beer bottle next to the sink in the kitchen. No dishes from a cooked meal; just a solitary fork. The take-out container from the Chinese food they'd eaten the night before he left for Ganymede in the garbage under the sink.  
  
The smoke smell was strongest in the bedroom, the window open by three inches. He whirled around, taking it in, the bed neatly made. Even while fury and something else – almost like fear – crawled in his gut, he screwed up his resolve and ripped back the bedspread, but the sheets were smoothed down and neat, the way she always made it. He cursed himself for suspecting her, for suspecting Spike, for letting jealousy raise his pulse and rattle his steady hands, and re-made it as best he could, standing back to examine his handiwork. He'd have to get her in it as soon as she came home, or she'd notice, and either she'd ask him about it, or she wouldn't, and he wasn't sure which would be worse. They hadn't made it past the couch when he met her at the door before he left to work out with Spike.  
  
He sighed and peeled off his t-shirt and sweats, dropping them in the empty laundry basket on his way to the bathroom. A hot shower, and Julia there when he got out, might improve his mood.  
  
With the hot water beating down on him, he actually felt a little foolish. He'd have to buy Spike a round of drinks, he thought, later tonight when the sting and the testosterone had worn off. Spike had been right that he'd missed having him around, but not just for sparring. He'd looked forward to feeling on-balance again all the way home from Ganymede. Seeing Julia with him was nothing new. Everything was going to sort itself out now, and most of all, he had the wholesale slaughter of White Tiger bosses to look forward to, with Spike and Julia by his side. He rinsed off the last of the soap and turned off the water, breathing in the steam, as he pulled back the shower curtain.  
  
The first towel, hung neatly, was still damp from Julia's shower that morning. He stepped out onto the bath mat and reached for the other. And the chill of the air became a bracing arctic current when he put a hand on that second towel and found it was damp as well. 


	33. Keep Dreaming

A/N: Since I am recreating, from here on in, a significant portion of material in the Bebop episodes, it behooves me to repeat: I don't own them. I just love them and seek to understand them. I have taken some liberties based on my very limited knowledge of spoken Japanese and quite possibly mangled the combination of translation, dub and original material for my own purposes.  
  
My deepest gratitude is reserved for story editor Keiko Nobumoto, who wrote this gorgeous backward-looking arc and drilled it into me with the closing credits of each episode. You may think Watanabe when you think Bebop, but you should be thinking of Ms. Nobumoto.

* * *

XXXIII. Keep Dreaming  
  
Vicious dressed mechanically, meticulously, the routine task a backdrop to his black thoughts. A towel alone might not be anything suspicious; she might have wrapped it around her hair, she might have mopped up a spill of water, she might have done anything at all. But it was not until he felt that damp cloth that he realized Spike had not acknowledged the comment about spending the night alone. Spike had not tried to tell him what he thought Julia needed. Spike had told him, plainly, what he had given her.  
  
He threaded platinum cufflinks through tiny buttonholes and chewed on the inside of his cheek. Any other man would go mad with rage and jealousy, he knew. But in the back of his mind, so close to the memory of Spike in the days before Julia that it burned, was the memory of Anthony, the man who went on when his wife betrayed him with a traitor, the man who allowed the Syndicate to address her indiscretion and kept his eye on the prize. He could see it clearly: the view from the top of the stairs, just the left side of Spike's thin frame visible on the stool at the breakfast bar. The conversation, Spike's fury, the way his emotion overruled him as it did so often in those days, the steely evenness of Anthony's voice as he explained – but did not justify – what had happened to Leah. And most of all, the words Spike had neither understood nor heeded: "I hope you are never betrayed."  
  
He looked at himself in the mirror, surprised by the depths of his own pale eyes, the scowl that deepened the lines of his scars and made his lips disappear in a thin line edged sallow. On Saturday, the White Tiger would fall. That was the prize toward which he had meticulously advanced for these last seven years, spending his blood and energy and what little was left of his heart. Even though Julia and Spike had betrayed him as a man, they were necessary to the achievement of the goal. If he did not acknowledge their personal trespass, they would work harder to please him, to help him. And when it was over, Anthony's words gave him leave to carry out the punishment they deserved.  
  
"Settled," he murmured to his reflection, inhaling deeply and willing the scowl to fade to impassivity. He threw back his shoulders and nodded, pasting on a smile when he heard the lock turn in the front door, heralding the return of his treacherous paramour.

* * *

With the temperature of the Syndicate locker room shower set to near- scalding, Spike clenched his jaw and ignored the sting of water and soap in the scrapes and cuts Vicious had dealt him. It had been idiotic to speak plainly to him. The lack of consequence for the words only made Spike more certain it would come later, and be worse for the fermentation. Somehow, neither the pain of injuries nor the sense of impending doom could rouse him from the sluggish, dreamlike state that had plagued him all morning, though, ever since Julia had allowed Vicious to kiss her and bid him an airy farewell at the door.  
  
He'd gotten more from her than he'd ever dreamed possible, though certainly not more than he'd dreamed. The best-laid plans of confronting her had crumbled. She accepted what he had to give, acknowledged it for what it was. But she did not love him, and had said it plainly in the not saying. She would not leave Vicious. Days and months and years stretched out in front of him, Astrid lost forever, Julia lost but close enough to watch and smell and think of. Nothing to drive his ambition, only the hollow tasks of the Syndicate and the unbearable reward for their completion: living. A reward he had never wanted before, until he poured himself into Julia. Now the chance of having that again, no matter how remote, left him terrified of dying in the same moment he dreaded waking from sleep to find himself still here in Tharsis City.  
  
The Van would not allow him to leave alive. But perhaps they would allow him to leave dead. He stood with the spray of the Turkish shower cascading over his shoulders and sifted through a plan to end the stalemate after the Tiger hit. A plan, and one more plea to Julia, offering her the salvation she thought beyond her reach.

* * *

Friday dawned gray, heavy with the unrealized promise of rain. Spike dragged himself out of bed and dressed in one of the fine Italian suits he had not yet worn, adjusting its drape and toying with whether to button the jacket or leave it open over the elegant vest beneath. He'd barely left the room at Annie's since his confrontation with Vicious. No call had come from Julia. Annie left him to himself, pouring him coffee when he ventured out in his sweats and cotton slippers to the front room, not broaching the subject of Julia or Vicious or anything else. In three days, he learned the subtleties of solitude. Preparation for being dead. He slept, and when he was awake, it felt like a dream his slumber refused to reveal to him.  
  
The city clock chimed nine and he gave himself a final appraisal in the mirror. His real eye, empty as his counterfeit, stared back. He tried on a smile, but it seemed to break tiny fibers in his jaw and cheekbones, so he left it behind and went to see the Van for the assignation.  
  
Vicious met him in the hallway with a too-simple nod of greeting. Lin arrived shortly afterward, and shook his hand, but did not push him to speak. He knew his expression gave away his state of mind, but he couldn't summon the energy to pretend. When Julia joined them, they walked four abreast through the double doors into the chamber, nodding silently to Mao, Mato and Lao.  
  
Only Sou Long spoke that morning. He surveyed them gravely, hands inside the sleeves of his formal robe, for at least a full minute before he opened his mouth.  
  
"Tomorrow is the day when each of you may call forth your personal grudges, ambitions and vengeance and deal them out upon our foe," he began. "You will be joined by four of the Vanguard, ten in number only. You will arrive separately, equipped from the armory immediately beforehand, at the Hotel St. Solomon at three in the afternoon. The hotel serves the Tiger its ritual last meal beginning at two-thirty. Exercise discretions of your own devising, each of you. Be punctual. You will not speak. Whatever words you have to say to the enemy, you must say them with bullet and blade. The Tiger knows no language but the language of pain." He drew a breath and let it out in a long sigh. "No one target is more important than another in the gallery. Eliminate them all." He waited, but no questions came.  
  
"All but Vicious are dismissed," he said, low, and gave a pointed look to Mao to show he was included in the dismissal. "We have need to speak with you privately." Vicious did not move or respond, but simply stood with his back straight and his right hand in his pocket, his left loosely balancing the sheath of the katana. The others filed out on heavy feet, and Julia looked into Spike's eyes with a long and helpless query, but she did not bid him farewell when he turned his back on her and went on down the hallway alone.  
  
Spike hailed a cab outside the tower and directed the driver to the municipal spaceport. He handed over a hundred-Woolong note and asked him to wait before joining a line at the cash-ticket windows. The roll of bills he'd withdrawn the night before bulged in his pocket: almost a million in cash, suspicious upon review, perhaps, but not all of his money. The rest of it would be tithe for his transgression, filtered back into the coffers of the Dragon upon his demise. He could summon no more regret for it than he could summon any other emotion. Even hope seemed relegated to the life before this dream. Only resignation drove him forward, gave him breath to speak and ask for two tickets to TJ, animated his hand to count off the ridiculous fare for a next-day passage under assumed names: Solomon and Anastasia Pennell. He knew it was obvious, but they wouldn't stay – TJ was just a good place to buy a used zipcraft and leave without anyone asking questions. The tickets seemed to weigh more than the Jericho as he settled them in his pocket and returned to the cab, giving the driver an address in the warehouse district a few blocks from Julia's apartment. When the car arrived, he peeled off another thousand Woolongs and gave them to the driver with the terse instruction, "Falsify your route and your manifest." The driver nodded, dumbly, and pulled away from the curb with the wad of cash still clutched in his left hand.  
  
His feet knew the way to Julia's too well now, and a cigarette propelled him there. Outside her door, for the first time in days, he felt something akin to waking life. He raised a hand to knock, but at the last moment tried the knob instead. It turned, and the door swung open before him, and there was Julia, standing by the table, lit by the gray half-sun through the window. She turned and looked up and squinted into the shadows. He did not reach for the light switch.  
  
Instead, he moved forward a few steps, so she would know it was him, still in shadows. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. He pushed the door closed behind him without turning.  
  
"When this is over, I'm leaving the Syndicate," he said. His own voice sounded foreign in his ears, too confident, too casual. She still did not move.  
  
"You'll be killed," she breathed, after a gaping silence.  
  
"I'll let them say I'm dead." He drew her ticket from his pocket and extended it across the table, holding her gaze. "I'll be waiting at the graveyard. Alive, of course." He felt a smile on his lips, though he didn't know what made him do it.  
  
Julia swallowed. "Spike... I can't come with you."  
  
It seemed beyond his hands now. He heard himself saying words he hadn't rehearsed. "Yes you can. We'll leave here, escape this place. This life."  
  
"And go where? And do what?" Her voice threatened to break, only her lips animated.  
  
"Leave. Go somewhere, live a life of freedom. Just like watching a dream."  
  
She finally reached out to him, taking hold of the ticket. Her fingers avoided his own as though opposite magnetic forces swam beneath their skin. He swallowed, tried to smile a little wider, and turned away, opening and closing the door softly. His course was set. She had only to appear.

* * *

When the latch of the door clicked shut behind him, Julia let out a long, rattling sigh and her steady hand shook. She looked down, reading the ticket, thinking TJ was as good a destination as any for a man who had nothing he wanted and nothing to lose. He'd never been on the run. He couldn't possibly know the way days could not be accounted for, the way ports all looked the same, the practiced art of avoiding eye contact and disappearing when anyone with a tan suit and a cop's walk entered a room. She knew too well, and even so, she shook with fear: fear at how breathlessly compelling the offer was. She held the means in her hand. The flight left at seven Saturday night.  
  
She wasn't sure how long she stood there before the door opened again. She looked up, expecting to see him there, and smiled, but Vicious came through instead. She barely had time to wonder if they'd spoken to each other outside before he crossed to her, looked into her eyes, and grasped the wrist of the hand that held the ticket.  
  
He took it from her loose fingers and scrutinized it, muscles in his jaw working. She sat heavily in the chair at the table, staring out the window, refusing to speak or look at him.  
  
"So. You were going to betray me?" He circled around her, and she heard the rustle of cloth, the click of a safety. Then it was there: the cold steel of a gun's muzzle, not the derringer, something heavier and far more ominous, pressed against her temple. "Did you really think you could just leave this life?"  
  
"Vicious..." she bit back the words she was sure he knew. I've already betrayed you. I really did think so.  
  
"Keep dreaming, Julia," he growled. "It's never going to happen."  
  
She waited, wanting him to pull the trigger, knowing it would be quick and painless, staring out the window and seeing only Spike's lean, desperate face as he offered her freedom. The seconds ticked by, and she realized Vicious would give her no such reprieve. She turned so the gun rested square between her eyebrows, ignoring the cold steel, and looked up at him. "Are you going to kill him?" she asked. It seemed the only question that mattered.  
  
He raised the gun, smirking. "Yes." He set its awful weight down on the table, and she saw it was a Colt, Syndicate-issue. "With your hands."  
  
She could not hold back the gasp as she looked from the weapon back to him.  
  
"You stay alive, or both of you die. Those are your only options." His cruel smile seemed to crystallize the air around him. "You will not be using this. I suggest you dispose of it permanently." He handed the ticket back to her.  
  
Impassive calm washed over her as she accepted it. So small and impermanent and mutable a thing, this passage to nowhere contained in nylon fibers and wood pulp. Only ink and brittle false flesh. She opened the window, looked down to the street below and spotted a trenchcoated figure in the shadows, leaning against the wall next to the stairwell. Perhaps they had seen each other; perhaps he had hidden and watched Vicious go inside. But he stood there, and the flare and fade of the cherry of his cigarette blinked like a beacon she could see far off on shore, but would never reach. She waited for the wrenching pain in her heart while she tore the ticket into smaller and smaller pieces, wishing it would simply disintegrate, that she could rip it until its atoms fell apart and left no trace of what she destroyed along with it. But she felt only the cold, steady rush of the wet wind and Vicious' gray eyes on her, and finally she let the pieces go, fluttering down to the street below on tiny currents, to join Spike and his cigarette butts, a final farewell at once gorgeous and cruel.  
  
"You will kill him at the summit," Vicious said, brisk and businesslike. "In the melee. Turn and put a bullet in his head. Do not miss. Remember that your own survival, your own life with me and in the Syndicate, depends on your success. I will defend you if necessary, after it is over." He grasped her shoulders in an iron grip and turned her square to face him. "I will never trust you again. From this point forward, you are another weapon in my arsenal, another trinket in my handbag. You have demonstrated a remarkable capacity for calculated cruelty. You will wield it in my name to keep your life." And then he kissed her, rough and angry, biting at her lips and digging his fingers into the flesh of her shoulders, while she stood immobile, empty as a spent casing and just as cold.


	34. Time Out of Mind

XXXIV. Time Out of Mind  
  
Spike nodded to Annie and her customer as he came through the front door of the shop. She looked up at him expectantly, but he let himself through the storeroom door and went straight to his room, peeling off his coat and suit jacket. The trappings of his position chafed. He changed into jeans and the bomber, and then sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at his hands.  
  
Vicious found the ticket. It was the only explanation; it had to be. The idea that she'd discarded it of her own volition was unthinkable, unspeakable. No matter. There were other ways, other routes. She might still come.  
  
It took all of his willpower to leave his comm. off and not call her, but the chance that she was with Vicious, or that he was keeping track of her communications, was too great. And like any good Syndicate man, Spike had backup plans to coordinate, preparations to make, the hundreds of little menial tasks that led up to any significant operation. He blew out a long sigh and forced himself to stand, and then to open the door, and then to go as quietly as possible down the back stair to the service entrance. Annie shouted his name as he opened the door, but he gritted his teeth and went out, letting it close softly behind him, and headed for the Syndicate garage and hangar lot.  
  
He was through the gate and onto the tarmac when he heard his name again. Vicious, this time. He ignored the twitch of fear in his stomach and halted.  
  
"Leaving so soon?" Spike turned to look; Vicious stood outside the fence, impeccable in his long gray overcoat and white sash. His expression bordered on amusement.  
  
"Selling the Swordfish. Have to get it ready," Spike replied, and walked a few paces toward him, digging out a cigarette.  
  
"You will not go without her," Vicious said, low and ominous. "And she will not go with you."  
  
Spike cocked his head to light the smoke and said nothing. They stood there in silence, Spike huffing a stream of blue off to the side, Vicious with his hands in his pockets, watching one another sidelong through the diamond pattern of the chain link. It seemed ridiculously symbolic, and Spike had to stifle a smirk. He'd gotten used to the lack of empathy, the lack of guilt. Even the amusement was just a gut reaction, a release of tension brought on by the incongruity.  
  
"Are you coming tomorrow?" Vicious finally asked, neutral.  
  
Spike raised an eyebrow as he took a drag. "Yes," he said shortly, through a cloud of smoke. "See you then." He turned his back on Vicious, apathetic even to his thinly veiled menace, and strode across the asphalt toward the Swordfish without a backward glance.  
  
Vicious shook his head at Spike's retreating form and turned back toward the tower. He had been avoiding Mao all day, ever since the Van had informed him of his conscription into the Martian Army – it still did not seem real, and it seemed even less real that Mao would agree, though they claimed he had. But by now, the feeling of betrayal was so familiar as to be comforting. No one else had their eyes on the prize. He could rely on himself, on his own cunning, and most of all, on his own single-minded determination. Spike would die before he could betray again; Julia would face the full wrath of the Van for it. Her divided heart was foolish no matter which way she followed it, and she would face the consequences. And in the aftermath, there would be only the Red Dragon, to which he held the purest title, and no other distractions or betrayers in the way. Save for Mao. Mao would have to wait.

* * *

Spike pushed himself out from beneath the undercarriage of the Swordfish and swiped an arm across his eyes. He had no intention of selling the ship, but her absence would have to be explained somehow. The glib lie to Vicious felt natural, and seemed to play off that way. It would help cement Vicious' conviction that he planned to leave by transport. The discovery of the ticket made transport travel impossible. If Julia came – when she came, he thought vehemently to himself – he would be the only one who knew how and where they were headed. Distract with the off hand. Execute with the on hand. He twirled the wrench in his fingers and let it slip beneath the cuff of his sleeve, a wry smile on his lips.  
  
With the monosystem replaced, the Swordfish would be anonymous, reporting as a small-class cargo vessel. The new computer had drained two hundred thousand from his net worth. It would not hold up to strong scrutiny – any police vessel that saw the ship and the signal at the same time would be suspicious – but there were only two gates between Mars and Earth, and Doohan would have a replacement for him there. It would be risky, using his cash card for the gate fees at both ends. Calculated risk. If he was dead and the Swordfish assumed sold, the head start would have to be enough.  
  
He climbed into the cockpit and started up the electrical systems; everything seemed in order. He made a mental note to pick up a good bottle – no, a good case – of whiskey for Doohan, nowhere near sufficient thanks for the summer spent learning to work on anything that rolled or flew, but a gesture of goodwill, at least. She taxied out of the hangar smoothly and took off without a hitch, and he let himself drift in the aptly named autopilot of flight over familiar territory, watching the buildings and the streets below collapse into a low-resolution sketch of the city.  
  
The Hotel St. Solomon squatted in the densely populated and constructed Financial District, close to White Tiger headquarters and on straight approach to the gate. East of it, a megacenter with a Cineplex and shopping towered over the old-fashioned hotel. He landed there and pulled into the roof parking, listening to the whir and click of the folding wings, making sure nothing seemed off after the tune-up and adjustments. He chose a parking space on the second level from the top, a dark corner easily accessible for the Swordfish's three-wheeled landing gear but difficult to negotiate for other vehicles. They'd have a hell of a time getting a tow attached to her, and they'd gladly take the double parking fare for leaving her overnight. After a final appraisal and double-check of the locks and alarm, he stretched and left on foot for home, one last time.  
  
By the time he arrived, it was past nine. The door sign read CLOSED, and Annie was nowhere to be found. He breathed a low sigh of relief and locked himself in his room, peeling out of his greasy clothing and collapsing into bed. He thought briefly of a meal, but the thought of having to interact with other people seemed repulsive, and sleep stole over him even while his stomach grumbled.

* * *

When he woke on Saturday morning, the digital clock read ten, but the light outside looked like dawn had not yet come. His stomach had given up complaining. He rolled over in bed, looking around at his books and the little Oriental end table Julia had urged him to buy, searching for anything that seemed worth taking with him. He lay there for another hour drifting in and out of sleep, mentally preparing. There was comfort in the instinctive mindset of a day of action. The blue suit Julia still hadn't seen was packed carefully in a messenger bag, the cash in the concealed pockets on either side of it. At the chime of eleven, he rose and began the dojo of preparation, showering, shaving, smoothing his unruly hair, dressing in the same clothing he'd worn to the assignation. It made no sense to ruin another new suit. Lin might be able to wear the ones he left behind. If he'd want the trappings of a dead man. Lin was sentimental and superstitious, but he was a clotheshorse too. The thought made Spike smile, just a little.  
  
He loaded up, filling his pants pockets with extra cartridges for the Jericho, securing throwing knives at his waist. When he ran out of weapons, he shouldered the bag, strap across his chest and the bulk settled flat against his back, and pulled his coat on over it. The man in the mirror was cold-hearted, a dispenser of death, an animal that knew only survival. He left the room unlocked and trudged down the stairs to see Annie, to make his farewell.  
  
She slid a full cup of coffee across the counter to him when he sat down. He smiled, but didn't take it. "Nothing to wire my nerves this morning, Annie," he said gently. "Today will be a busy day."  
  
"You don't seem too concerned," she replied, not looking at him.  
  
"There's nothing to be concerned about."  
  
That got her attention. "Don't get cocky today, of all days, Spike," she snapped, and leaned on her elbows, up in his face. "I expect you home by six."  
  
"I won't promise what I can't guarantee," he whispered, and then cleared his throat to go on more steadily. "But I have no intention of dying." He bit back a longer explanation.  
  
"I've heard what you haven't been saying these past few days," she murmured. "I don't suppose it would do any good to tell you that you should get over it and get on with your life. I don't suppose you'd listen."  
  
He bowed his head and shook it. "Annie, you should know – I always hear you. I'm better for all the things you say to me, even when I can't do what you ask."  
  
She sighed and looked at him sharply. "I want Spike back."  
  
"Thank you for everything," he said, low. "I don't know how you stayed good, with everything gone rotten around you, but I love that you did." And he stood, putting a hand over one of hers briefly, before he turned to go and left her looking after him with the weight of his words unmistakable.  
  
No one spoke to him when he passed through the Tower's sliding doors and crossed the lobby. He took the back elevator down to the basement, and raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement when the desk clerk let him through the security door. He was surprised to find Lin in the armory's storeroom.  
  
"I wanted first dibs on the party favors. I see you had the same idea," Lin said in greeting.  
  
Spike nodded, trying to think of something appropriate to say. He finally settled on "What's new in here?" This was Lin's territory and passion. He wouldn't change the subject if the subject were weaponry.  
  
Lin unlocked a heavy steel drawer and pulled out a case bearing a red EXPLOSIVES stencil. "These are old school," he said with a wink, and handed Spike a plastique square the size of his palm, wrapped in wire and connected to a device that looked like a cross between a lighter and a grenade. "Semtex remotes. Made them at home. The receiver charges from the battery in the transmitter," he went on, holding up the lighter-looking object. "When you're ready to use it, disconnect the cable and stick the payload to whatever needs disintegrating. The receiver will hold a charge for about five minutes. Be careful, though. Keep track of which remote goes with which placement." He flicked the top of the remote open. "Button. Self-explanatory. No delay on the trigger. It won't fire if it's still connected."  
  
"This will take out – what?" Spike asked, turning the bundle over to look at it more closely.  
  
"Support beams. Load-bearing walls. Stone or concrete, probably not heavy steel. They're meant to do structural damage, but you don't want to be in the vicinity when they go off all the same. Don't play with them," he hissed as Spike fiddled with the connecting wire.  
  
"Sorry," Spike said mildly. "How many do you have?"  
  
"Half a dozen. I'll give you two. And make sure I see you plant them if you're going to use them," Lin ordered as he pulled another out of the metal case and handed it over.  
  
Spike nodded. He settled one in each pocket of his trenchcoat.  
  
"You're going to want something more than the Jericho," Lin prodded.  
  
"Tommy," Spike replied. Before the word was all the way out, Lin was halfway down the next row, rattling around. He came back with a short- barrel Thompson and four drum magazines. Spike took off his coat to drape the strap over his head. The compact gun hung neatly over his shoulder, slung opposite the messenger bag. Lin raised an eyebrow.  
  
"What's in the bag?" he asked.  
  
"Change of clothes," Spike said, shrugging back into the trenchcoat. He distributed the magazines in the inside pockets, making sure the cloth hung evenly.  
  
Lin let out a laugh. "Going somewhere after the hit?"  
  
"Thought we might all have a round of drinks in the hotel bar." Spike smiled at him with as much warmth as he could muster. No other words came to him, so he embraced his lifelong friend and comrade, hiding the expression of resigned sorrow over his shoulder, and raised a hand in a half-wave. "See you in a few hours."  
  
He hailed a cab outside the tower and rode to the megacenter, sitting diagonal and awkward in the corner of the back seat with his cargo behind him. The driver prattled on about some new film about farming colonies on Venus; Spike nodded whenever the stream of words stopped and concentrated on the few hours ahead. A generous tip earned him a smile despite his reticence during the drive.  
  
None of the shoppers in the building looked twice at him. It was almost enough to make him laugh, walking among them dressed to the nines and armed to the teeth. The parking level bustled with activity, and it provided good cover for the drop-off of the messenger bag in the Swordfish. He scribbled "back before closing" on the overnight penalty ticket the attendant had left on the cockpit bubble and locked her up again. The digital readout at the pay kiosk read one o'clock.  
  
He was close to Julia's, and despite knowing better, his feet took him through the bazaar that buffered the financial district from the warehouse district. A little girl barking for a flower stand caught his attention, and he ducked out of the steady rain to buy a dozen roses from her.  
  
She beamed at him. "What a lucky girl will get such beautiful flowers from such a handsome man!" she exclaimed.  
  
"You're good at your job," he replied, with a small smile, and turned away, on down the street where he knew he shouldn't be. He spotted the wing of Vicious' zipcraft over the edge of the roof of Julia's building and finally came to a halt, the rain pounding down on his hair and shoulders, dripping into his eyes.  
  
"Now is no time to be a fool," he muttered to himself, and made his way to the busy corner where the main arterial met Julia's street. He leaned up against the brick wall under the eaves, the bouquet clutched in one hand, and lit a cigarette, watching for Vicious' ship and letting the time drain away. The ship did not move, and no one came out of the front stairwell of her building, through almost the entire pack. At the chime of two-thirty, he pushed off with a shoulder and went back toward the hotel, lost somewhere between a dream of the future and the knowledge of what had to be done this day, and did not notice the rose that fell from the paper wrapping behind him as he walked. 


	35. Still Beating in Your Hand

XXXV. Still Beating in Your Hand  
  
Spike jumped when a man in a concierge's uniform put a hand on his shoulder; it took a moment to realize he was looking into the impassive face of one of the Vanguard. "Your party is on the top floor," he said formally, with a half-bow. "Please proceed there directly." He turned away, smiling at a woman who walked by and stared at Spike. "May I help you, Ma'am?" he asked.  
  
Spike took advantage of the distraction and found the elevators; only one of them showed that it traveled all the way to the fifteenth floor. It took longer than he liked to arrive, but was empty, and no other passengers joined him before the doors closed. He punched the top button on the display, labeled "Private", and leaned back against the waist-high rail as gravity increased.  
  
It opened again onto an opulent hallway, hung with blue and white silk swag and punctuated by vases of white roses. He looked down at the bouquet of red ones in his hand and smiled. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a head darting around a corner, and then a hand waving briefly. He followed it and found himself in a small foyer before double hardwood doors. Lin, Lao, Mato and Vicious were there already. Spike looked back out into the hall.  
  
"Where's Julia?" he asked in a low voice, pointedly ignoring Vicious' gaze.  
  
"Not here yet," Lin replied. "She didn't come with Vicious, since the Van said to arrive separately."  
  
Spike nodded. "And the Vanguard?"  
  
"One should have met you downstairs," Lao whispered. "The other three are in the kitchen, acting as 'event supervisors'. They cleaned out the Tiger detail about five minutes ago. Didn't Li tell you?"  
  
For a moment, Spike drew a blank, and then remembered that one of the Vanguard – presumably, the one dressed as a hotel employee – was named Li. "He didn't tell me anything, except to come upstairs."  
  
Vicious pulled a silver pocketwatch from his vest, his mouth a thin line of irritation. "Enough talking. Time to go." He looked out into the hallway once more; Spike took some comfort in knowing he wondered where Julia was as well. Or at least, if he didn't wonder, he was going to far more trouble than usual to make it appear that way.  
  
"I'll lead," Spike said. Vicious looked up at him sharply, but he held up the roses. "I brought a diversion." He pulled a cartridge from his coat and loaded the Tommy, adjusting the strap so the barrel hung flush against the side of his chest. Before Vicious or anyone else could protest, he put a hand on the double doors. The other Dragons moved back, hugging the wall out of sight, and he did not look at them as he pushed his way into the room.  
  
Something in his mind seemed to find a detent stop; he was in his element here, trained to the point of instinct rather than conscious thought. The room was arranged in a loose semicircle of smaller, rectangular and round tables all facing a large banquet table at the opposite end of the room. A buffet along the left side was not yet fully stocked. The kitchen staff were late with the meal – not good. Instead of catching them in mid- mouthful, they all sat idle, waiting for their food to be served. Heads turned almost in unison to stare at him in the doorway. He made the split- second calculations; he saw no faces he recognized. Fortunately, this gathering of leaders did not include street forces that would recognize him on sight.  
  
"Yo," he said, smiling and clutching the bouquet with both hands. "Is this the rehearsal dinner?" He looked around, gauging the reactions on faces, noting which hands moved to jackets and which of the men appeared ready to stand. "Uh. I guess not. I don't know any of you. Sorry!" He backed toward the door, still smiling and hoping he managed a blush at the same time. A few of the Tigers turned back toward the head table; most of them relaxed and let their hands fall.  
  
"Hey," Spike said, shifting the flowers from hand to hand. "Do any of you know if there's another dining room up here? I think I'm late."  
  
Now more of them turned away, ignoring him. He smiled. "Thanks anyway." He felt for the stock of the Tommy, slid one hand down to the support, brought it up behind the bouquet. "Guess I'll just be on my way." And he opened fire, spraying the two tables nearest himself with split-second rounds, watching bodies jerk and fall. His right eye registered the figures rising nearer the head table, the subtle flashes of reflected candlelight off steel barrels, and he dove to the side beneath a table occupied by corpses, making way for the rest of the team to enter.  
  
He heard rather than saw the kitchen doors burst open and the machine-gun reveille of the Vanguard from that direction. More weapon fire exploded behind him, and in front of him now as well, the sound of pistols and submachines, the sound of a room full of exceptionally well-armed and well- trained gang members. The Dragon had the advantage, since most of their foe had long been off the street, but then rifle reports cut through the din and Spike realized there were trained snipers in the crowd as well.  
  
He snake-crawled his way out from beneath the table, firing until someone spotted him and then ducking under another, making his way toward the front of the room. He saw the flash of white and silver, Vicious darting in a crouch toward the head table with the katana drawn, already tired of impersonal murder by gunfire. The Vanguard covered his path, and he drew up to full height, gorgeous and unearthly, swinging the blade in a violent arc that seemed effortless, but left hewn bodies in its wake. He dispatched three of the four men at the table with a single slash and let the momentum carry him in a dancer's twirl, catching the remaining man across the throat as he stood with his napkin clutched in his hand.  
  
Spike shimmied backward in a crouch until he was up against the wall, taking stock. There had been perhaps thirty men in the room; he'd taken down eight or nine of them before they'd had time to react. The intervals between gunfire stretched longer now. Looking to his right, he missed Mato's sprint down the center of the room for a split second, and as he turned to see who passed in front of him, a rifle shot rang out. Mato's face seemed to stretch, his mouth widening in an O of shock and pain. Blood and flesh trailed out behind him. Spike started to rise, the Jericho out and aimed toward the front of the room, looking for the sniper, as Lao ran to Mato and another rifle report cut through the rushing sound of adrenaline. Lao's hands went to his midriff, though his expression was far more stoic than Mato's.  
  
In a blinding moment of horror, Spike realized the impact of Mato and Lao both falling in this fight. He looked around, his concentration broken, and saw a Vanguard carrying Shin by a limp arm over his shoulder, heading for the exit. One of Lin's legs dragged behind him, leaving a trail of blood. Spike whirled, and in the second he spotted the scope of a sniper rifle beneath the head table, the butt of a handgun crunched against his temple. He turned instinctively and fired the Jericho, rolling to avoid the body of the unfortunate Tiger who'd run out of ammunition. Before the blackness closed in completely, he took aim from his prone position and fired in the direction of the rifle barrel until his cartridge was empty.  
  
Swimming in the pain of his head injury and the strange hollow ringing that followed his own gunfire, Spike struggled to remain conscious, breathing shallow, listening for movement. An agonizing five minutes of silence dragged by, and Spike began to wonder if he alone survived the massacre. From his vantage point, he could see Mato's body sprawled in the center of the room, and Lao twitching, his breath a hopeless rattle, next to his partner's corpse. Finally he, too, fell still.  
  
He was about to break cover when he heard Vicious speak, seemingly from near the kitchen door. Of course Vicious was still alive. His death would have been a stroke of karmic beneficence Spike had not earned.  
  
"Was it worth it, Spike? To follow in your mother's footsteps? Were the press of flesh and betraying me worth dying for? I meant to ask her the same question about you, but she is not here to answer me."  
  
"Who's the betrayer? We're nothing more than even, Vicious," Spike shot back from behind the massive column.  
  
"You and I are not even yet," came his brittle reply.  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
"She made another foolish decision she will briefly live to regret." Vicious' voice was closer, easier to make out. "Too bad. I would have enjoyed watching her kill you. Now I have no choice but to do it myself."  
  
Spike's laughter, unearthly cold, rang in the stillness. "You could rip out my heart right here, Vicious. Carve it out with your favorite toy. And it would sit there, still beating in your hand, because as long as she lives, I will. I know what you take for granted. I'll live until all hope of having it again is gone. You are not the one to take that hope away from me."  
  
Vicious grinned, audible around his words. "I am the only one who can kill you, Spike. And I'm the only one who can keep you alive. It has been that way ever since I found you on that operating table and carried your bloody, helpless breathing corpse out into the sunlight. She is as good as dead. On my testimony, the Van will crucify her for failing to be here, to fill out the expected ranks. She will take the blame for Mato and Lao's deaths. They will fill her so full of lead she'll sink into the bay without ballast."  
  
The mental image made pain flare in every one of Spike's wounds. But the promise he had made to her kept him from crumbling. She had not come here of her own volition; clearly, it surprised Vicious as much as the rest of them. He would make it to the graveyard, make it there alive. And Vicious would be none the wiser. He pulled one of the Semtex kits from his pocket and reached around to attach it to the opposite side of the column, separating the remote and arming the receiver.  
  
He flipped the safety on the remote, a grin of his own spreading across his face, disturbing the flow of blood that snaked down from his temple to his jaw. He heard the light step of Vicious taking cover. "If she is as good as dead, then I will not give you the satisfaction of killing us both," Spike said, low and clear. And he pressed the switch, felt himself letting go of the control and arching backward in the same moment the C4 blew, the skin of his palms and face scorched, letting the concussion drive him backward and then following it with a graceful roll, concealed behind the crumbling of the column and the avalanche of leather and wood ceiling panels. He made it to the head table and heard the thud of debris pummeling it. The sniper groaned, reaching for his rifle, and Spike wrapped an arm around the man's bleeding neck, squeezing tightly, feeling his breath hitch and finally fade as he went limp. He shivered; unlike Vicious, he had never been able to overcome the horror of dealing a deathblow with his own hands. One leg of the table cracked and it collapsed above him. He curled up tight, forearms shielding his head, and held his breath to keep from coughing and revealing his still-beating heart. 


	36. You Turn the Screws

XXXVI. You Turn the Screws  
  
A/N: Apologies to Megan, who asked so nicely back at Ch. 26. The ending was not mine to write, only the journey getting here. Like Anne Boleyn and King Henry VIII, that single day of convergence must sustain a lifetime of distance unspooling.  
  
My readers, my sweet reviewers, my tough critics, the currents that buffet me along the right path with your questions and your encouragement: it's all about you. And especially you, cowgirlnoir, the other half of my brain and my soul found serendipitously in a world I had no business inhabiting. I look forward to the forever.

* * *

Years seemed to pass while Spike lay balled up beneath the table. He heard the clatter of rubble faintly, and thought it was followed by the sound of the katana being sheathed, but judging from how the sound did not carry, he would have a hell of a time getting out when he judged it safe to do so. Vicious did not speak and if he moved, he moved too lightly for Spike to register it.  
  
Finally, the sound of other voices cut through the din, hotel employees, someone trying to open the kitchen door and coming up against debris. Vicious would have fled by now. Then an ominous creak and crack preceded another rain of plaster and stone, and someone shouted "get out!"  
  
When the room was silent again, Spike finally uncurled as much as he could and dug for his lighter. Its flame revealed the dead sniper, perhaps six inches of clearance between the body and the underside of the table. He reached over and pushed experimentally at the large chunk of plaster nearest him, pleased to find it shifted. After another ten minutes of inching his way over the body and shoving at rubble, dim light crept in and he knew he was free.

* * *

Vicious barely missed the cavalcade of hotel employees who streamed out of the elevator; he could hear them running from behind the stairwell door. He took the fifteen flights of steps down three at a time, burst out into the rainy afternoon, and was into his ship while the lights of the ISSP zipcraft were still at least a half-mile away. He headed straight for Julia's building, knowing he had nothing to fear from the police but the fate already assigned to him.  
  
The knob of her new door turned easily under his hand and he pushed it open, eyes sweeping the room. She sat in one of the dining room chairs turned toward the window, looking over her shoulder at him. Her opal derringer rested in her lap, already cocked.  
  
"I'm done playing games with you, Vicious," she said in a gravelly whisper. Tear-streaks marred her cheeks, but her eyes were dry.  
  
He laughed and shut the door behind him. "I refuse to believe you would kill me, if you would not kill Spike. Even if I pose the greater danger to you."  
  
"You pose no danger to me at all, Vicious," she replied. "Just as you are certain I would not kill you, you would have done me in already if you had the balls for it."  
  
His hand went to the hilt of the katana and he advanced on her, but she lifted the pistol and aimed, her blue eyes impassive and hard as sapphires. "We're going to the Tower," she said, "and I'll explain to Mao why I did not come. That you ordered me to kill Spike. He knows what you asked Spike to do before we went to Ganymede. He knows everything."  
  
The muscles in Vicious' jaw clenched, but he stayed his hand and relaxed. "You are a better liar than even I realized," he said, and the corners of his mouth turned up just a little. "But I have secrets of my own, Julia. And news you will no doubt be sorry to hear. Spike is dead."  
  
She stifled a gasp, but the hand holding the derringer did not shake.  
  
"Not only Spike. Mato and Lao, and three of the Vanguard, too. The Van will no doubt wonder if it might have turned out differently, had the tenth member of the team been there to provide the coverage we planned to have. By all means, let's go to the Tower. You can explain to Sou Long and to Mao Yenrai why they had to lose their sons."  
  
Her eyes narrowed. "Spike is not dead."  
  
"Oh, but he is," Vicious said, a grin spreading across his face. "He knew what would happen to you when the Van got hold of you. He curled up with a handful of C4 and took the transport out of this life. Like a coward."  
  
"Bullshit," she hissed, and her lower lip trembled a little.  
  
He crossed the few feet between them so fast she barely had time to react, and though she squeezed the trigger, he'd feinted far enough to one side that the round buried itself in the wall next to the door. He wrenched her wrist around so that the gun fell and had it behind her back in one swift turn. She let out a snarl of pain and did not struggle.  
  
"Let's go," he whispered in her ear. "I would not put you out of your misery before you had the opportunity to face the fathers of dead men. Nor before you learned that you would have been free, not just of my wrath, but of me, if you had done as I ordered you to do."  
  
"Vicious, I'll never be free of you," she said as she straightened her back. "I would settle for being rid of you."  
  
He shoved her forward, still holding the hand behind her back, and then drew himself up against her back again, forcing her toward the door. "I'm in the Army now," he barked in her ear, and laughed. "Yes, you would have been rid of me. Everyone seems to want to be rid of me. Clearly, I pose a bigger threat to them than any one man should."  
  
She went through the door ahead of him without protest, hiding her expression of confusion from him behind a curtain of hair. They went up the roof stairs in silence. At the ship, he lashed her hands behind her back with his scarf and shoved her roughly into the jump seat. As he climbed in after her, she finally replied, "What do you mean, you're in the Army now?"  
  
"Mao and the Van decided I could use the emotional enrichment of boot camp," he said from behind clenched teeth. "To buy the ISSP's blind eye for the Tiger hit, they agreed to allow me to be conscripted."  
  
He heard her suck in a breath behind him. "How long have you known?" she ground out.  
  
"Longer than I have known you let Spike fuck you."  
  
"And you ordered me to kill him anyway. You are pathetic," she hissed. "Jealous and childish and pathetic. You can't have me, so no one will?"  
  
He inclined his head. "I am alive, and I will remain so on Titan, and I will return to what I have worked my whole life to achieve. Dying for love is pathetic."  
  
She bit her lip and said nothing else through the flight, or the long walk from the hangar to the Tower, or their halting march across the lobby to where four Vanguard stood waiting.  
  
"The Van will see you immediately," one of them intoned, and they all moved smoothly, forming a semicircle behind Vicious and Julia with their weapons drawn and held casual by their sides. Their procession slid through the knots of other Dragons talking in low voices in the hallway, and halted at the double doors of the chamber where Mao stood with his head bowed.  
  
He looked up, his face drawn and sallow, flesh hanging as though somehow heavier with grief, and opened the door behind him. Seven now, they filed into the dim chamber as the lights came on in the mezzanine.  
  
Julia stepped forward, ignoring the warning look from Mao and Sou Long's raised hand. "Before anything else is said, you all should know – I would have come to you freely. I would have made sure you knew that Vicious ordered me to kill Spike Spiegel at the hit today. That he would have murdered me himself if I would not do it. Mao knows he ordered my own death at Spiegel's hand before. I'm glad to be here, where you can see how little stock he puts in your orders."  
  
She heard the shuffling of bodies behind her and was afraid to turn. She knew Vicious had gone for his weapon and been restrained by the guard. She dropped her head and waited for the Van's reply.  
  
"Turn him over to the ISSP," Sou Long said, his voice strangely high and strained. "Confine her in the chamber until we have had a chance to review the events of this afternoon. Get out of my sight," he finished, and stood up from his seat, disappearing down the back stair. A rough hand grasped her above the elbow and yanked; she turned and followed, numb, avoiding Mao's eyes as she passed him.

* * *

Spike stepped out of the stairwell cautiously, noting the yellow crime scene tape strung all the way across the alley between the hotel and the next building. He blinked a few times, glad he'd left the Tommy behind, and began an unsteady walk toward the nearest ISSP officer.  
  
"Hey!" the cop called out as Spike lurched toward him. "You all right there, buddy?"  
  
Spike raised a hand and smiled. "Yeah, I got hit in the head by some guy coming down the stairwell. Put me out for a bit. I'm okay now, though."  
  
"Did you get a look at him?" the cop asked with his hand on his sidearm.  
  
"Not really. He had white hair. A sword." Spike stifled a smirk.  
  
"You should go to a hospital, get that checked out," the cop replied, already looking off toward the trickle of people coming out the front doors.  
  
"Yeah, I'll do that right now." Spike ducked under the tape and waved, cutting across the street to the shopping center between cars.  
  
He got a few strange looks in the elevator up to the parking garage, but news of the explosion next door had traveled fast and most people gave him a wide, if curious, berth. He changed awkwardly in the cockpit of the Swordfish, scrubbing at the dried blood on his face with the sleeve of his discarded suit jacket. It was stubborn, but faded after he'd used up most of the bottle of water left from the flight out of Alva City.  
  
He didn't want to risk the Swordfish being spotted in the daylight, with all of the police activity, so he rode the elevator back down, much more anonymously, and hailed a cab. Light drizzle made everything seem to glow with a faint halo of light as the car snaked down the side streets toward the cemetery. Spike paid the driver with a thousand-Woolong note, waving, and sat down on the bench in the long, stone-paved alleyway that led to the courtyard and the tiered rows of headstones. He lit a cigarette and leaned back, squinting into the mist, one hand jammed in his pocket.  
  
The hours until the clock chimed seven drifted like a time-lapse slideshow, the clouds breaking up to allow watery sunlight in, the cars whirring by on the street, occasional visitors to the cemetery passing him with carefully averted eyes, deep in their own memories and grief. He thought of Mao and Sou Long, outliving their sons; of Vicious and his bizarre unspooling out of sanity; of Julia and guilt and a future where she remained and the guilt could fade. At the sound of the bells, he stood and went out into the courtyard. A single red rose lay in a puddle on the pathway. He bent and picked it up, holding it loosely in his fingers, and turned so he could see all three entrances to the cemetery. Waiting. 


	37. Epilogue

EPILOGUE   
(Jamming with Spike)

> > > what if a dawn of a doom of a dream  
bites this universe in two,  
peels forever out of his grave  
and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?  
blow soon to never and never to twice  
(blow life to isn't: blow death to was) --  
all nothing's only our hugest home;  
the most who die, the more we live.
>>>
>>>> > -e.e. cummings

> _everything that keeps me together is falling apart  
I've got this thing that I consider my only art of fucking people over_

He doesn't love you. He never will.

I always did. That ought to count for something.

It was only a ticket. You don't need it now.

It's not too late.

> _your heart felt good, it was dripping pitch and made of wood  
and your hands and knees felt cold and wet on the grass to me_

That night, I believed you loved me. Even if you couldn't say it. Even if you were afraid to think it. You wouldn't do the same to me. Would you?

And still, there's no way to break a promise that hasn't been made. I'm going to be telling myself that forever. I never promised him anything but the chance to ask you first. You never promised me anything but what you gave me.

I promised to wait. I'm waiting.

> _angels fly around you   
reminding you we used to be three and not just two  
and that's how the world began  
and that's how the world will end_

We're out of alignment, phase-shifted by one person, one heart. You know mine: the way I ache for you, the way everything blooms when you turn that smile on me. You know it because you felt it for him. And you know his heart as well: helpless against the desire to take what you gave, grateful for it, ashamed of the weakness and the blinding joy it brought. You know it because you felt it for me.

Am I destined to give thanks and no more to a woman who loves me, in turn?

> _the universe is shaped exactly like the earth – if you go straight long enough you'll end up where you were_

_**- fin -**_

* * *

Excerpt from "what if a much of a which of a wind" by e.e. cummings, public domain. You need more of him in your life. 

Lyrics from "Third Planet", from the Modest Mouse album _The Moon and Antarctica_ – used without permission but with deepest respect and adoration.

Thank you to: Rissi-Sama, cowgirlnoir, www dot shut-up dot com (I don't ignore your reviews… there's just no way to contact you or even type your handle in an author comment!), Black Betty, bkgirlnews, Vicious237, degeneratebeerwench, Dr. Raven Horror PhD, Yoshi1, FIREmblemFAN, LivEvil, Lady Razorsharp, DaemonAvatar (but you should really see about that unhealthy Julia hatred), Distance, Kerrinne, Brigidforest, Kajouka, Shae Enspira, and LilMelfina64, who stuck with me through my ridiculously uneven posting schedule and reminded me along the way that being a writer means letting go of your creations and giving them to your audience without jealousy.


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